Cause and Effect
by Raven Studios
Summary: Pre-Mass Effect. Jalissa Shepard meant to stay a farmer on Mindoir after high school. And then the batarians came. 100 prompts. 1000 words. From Mindoir, through basic, to Elysium, to just before boarding the Normandy. Snapshots of Shepard's life. (Cover images all belong to Bioware. As with Mass Effect itself, I'm just borrowing them and giving credit where it's due.)
1. Introduction

Long-Winded Opening Author's Notes (just background stuff, you don't *need* it for the story—it's just giving credit, whys, and hows.):

Okay, this story's format takes a little explaining. It's centered around the 100 Themes challenge (you can find it at www[dot]100themeschallenge[dot]deviantart[dot]com – you know the drill. I'm using variation one).

Taking to heart the old adage 'a picture's worth a thousand words', this piece will be comprised of 100 1000-word snapshots, of Shepard's life from Mindoir, to the Blitz, to a few days pre-Normandy. Some of the prompts will be less interesting than others, and there's creative license taken, because the Mass Effect Wikia didn't have certain small details (e.g. when Mindoir was founded as a colony) and because I've only got the thousand words.

Special thanks to the Mass Effect Wikia (masseffect[dot]wikia[dot]com[backslash]wiki[backslash]Mass_Effect_Wiki) for providing so much information in one place.

Special thanks to Bioware, who owns Mass Effect – this disclaimer applies to any and all chapters of this work. So you know in advance, I'm not 100% sure how the N program works, so I shall assume there's the straight-shot through (for people like Capt. Anderson) and a more stretched out method of certification. It makes no sense, to me at least, for all Ns to be officers.

Shepard here is Jalissa Aileen (though her first name appears only rarely) and follows the Mindoir/War Hero track, eventually as an Infiltrator (combat/tech).

So, here we go. Enjoy.

--J--

--Introduction--

--J--

The only part of Jalissa Shepard currently visible were her legs, sticking out from beneath the battered groundcar. A quiet, growled litany of encouragement alternated with mild profanity—running along the lines of 'come on, you greasy, oily bastard…_twist already_!'—issued from beneath the vehicle, punctuated with grunts, growls, and the occasional hiss of pain as something slipped unexpectedly.

Jeb Shepard leaned on the barn doorframe, watching his daughter's frustration taken out on the groundcar. True, the vehicle gave more than its fair share of trouble, but Jalissa very rarely found it necessary to lock herself up with a project at which she could spit and swear unrestrainedly. Such a thing always signaled a day of unusually concentrated 'bad'.

_Clang_. _Clunk. _The sounds were not unlike Jalissa taking a wrench and smacking the undercarriage with it. Silence fell, a slight squeak as if testing something, then Jalissa rolled out from beneath the behemoth.

Jalissa's expression crumpled into a wince. "Heya dad," she raised the hand holding the wrench in greeting, a smile fixed on her face, unsure if a reprimand for her coarse language waited in the wings. It would, she fumed, only add to an already bad day.

"Rough day at school?" Jeb asked mildly.

Implicit understanding that she was not to receive a reprimand, Jalissa got to her feet, wiping her hands on her coveralls, leaving dark handprints as she did so. She produced the key, gave it a turn, and listened to the groundcar start, the machinery whirring softly as it had not before beginning work on it.

"The worst." Jalissa turned off the groundcar, leaning on it heavily. "Car's fine." The unnecessary announcement, accompanied by tossing the keys to her father, spoke loudly. Jalissa rubbed her forehead with her wrist, leaving a spectacular grease streak across her skin.

"You want to talk about it?"

"I expect you'll hear _all_ about it from the principal…if you haven't already." The old bat had suspicions, but nothing else. Who, Jalissa demanded of herself, would _want_ to plaster the school computers with a password locked screensaver detailing the last dance's mishaps?

Certainly, and for once truthfully, not she. Yes, she hijacked computers like this before—several times—but never for no reason. Not that hijacking the computers was _difficult_, it merely took guts and proficiency, and would continue to take little else until the school paid someone to oversee computer security.

Jeb watched the disgruntled grin of grim determination cross Jalissa's features. In truth, he _had_ fielded a call from the principal, telling him Jalissa was the prime suspect in a recent outbreak of 'computer graffiti'. Jalissa, he knew, did not arbitrarily make trouble. Her parents raised her to know better. On the other hand, she did not take the crap running rampant in a high school meekly.

The fact she had not yet come to blows with a couple of the students spoke loudly. "I've gotta go into Port. Want to go?"

Jalissa's grease-streaked face broke into a grin.

"Get cleaned up, let's go." Jeb shooed her, even as she scrambled past him. Making sure she was gone, Jeb stretched out on the trolley, rolling under the groundcar. He taught his children to work on farm equipment as soon as they were old enough. Of those so far trained, Jalissa showed competence for machinist's work.

Her skill with a computer was greater, seemingly instinctive.

Sure enough, the problem he cited the night before no longer posed a problem, though the fix was obviously temporary, meant to hold only until the groundcar could make it to a garage—exactly where he intended to take it.

Jalissa—in jeans and without the grease—climbed into the groundcar, once her father rolled out from beneath it.

Jeb gave her a shifty look, embarrassed to be caught double checking her work, before climbing in himself. "You're definitely my daughter," Jeb pushed the trolley away and climbed into the groundcar. "So. Did you do it?" Jeb asked, as they pulled out of the Shepard homestead.

"Did I do what?" The wind whipped her hair into her face.

"At school," Jeb prompted neutrally.

"_No_, I _didn't_. But I'm going to find out who _did_…."

"And?" Jeb did not really need to ask. Jalissa's brand of social sabotage worked far better than any rumor or fistfight. Fighting one person was easy—fighting public opinion was not.

Jalissa smiled at the scenery. "If I can _prove_ it, Ms. March'' get off my back. So what if this thing," she pounded the groundcar indicatively, "dies on us?"

"I don't think it'll die," Jeb answered, knowing the vote of confidence would sooth Jalissa's ruffled feathers.

"The Alliance's yearly recruit-a-thon is coming up," Jalissa noted cagily.

"You thinking about enlisting?"

"A lot of my friends are. Baza and Codie both want to, in two years. Dietrich's going to let the Alliance pay for school, then go in as an 'O'."

"It's a good plan." Jeb nodded, glancing sideways at his daughter. "But that doesn't tell me what _you_ think."

Jalissa leaned back in her seat. "I don't want to leave Mindoir. I wanna say on the farm with you and Mom."

"That's fine," Jeb answered carefully. "Whatever you want to do, sweetheart."

Heartened, Jalissa nodded. "Dietrich thinks it's a waste of time…but who wants to live on a spaceship most of the year? Fake air, fake sun, fake _food_…"

"And being allowed to say you're 'fixing on something', whether it needs fixing or not," Jeb teased.

"That too. I like...the simplicity out here. Is that weird?" Unseen by her father, Jalissa's vivid eyes held all the insecurity of a normal teenager.

"No, I don't think it's weird," Jeb assured her.

Settling back in her seat, Jalissa exhaled her relief, glad the conversation occurred, but equally glad it was over. There was time, in the future, if she should change her mind about the Alliance. She was only sixteen, which meant she had a long span of life ahead of her.

--J--


	2. Hold My Hand

--Hold My Hand--

--J--

Grass swished around her feet and ankles, as she raced towards outlines of trees ahead, darker shades of She could not hear any of the innocent rustlings of grass of thicket, but screams echoed in her mind. She could not hear any pursuit, but she _perceived_ it.

Her ragged, desperate breathing sounded too loud in her ears. Heartbeats shook her entire body, as new sounds rushed overhead, the terrifying sounds of more fighting, more ships. More clearly than the trees into which she fled were the shattered, disjointed memories burned into her mind.

Her father's face as he realized something was wrong. Dark ships overhead, as they raced back to the homestead. Four-eyed monsters coming out of nowhere. Her father's face melting like an overheated marshmallow. Her own scream of fear and horror as she wrenched the shotgun from his lifeless fingers. The spongy mass, exploding wetly from behind the monster as she unloaded both barrels into its head.

The images flickered, all the while wreathed in the screams and smoke coming from what was once the Shepard homestead. Running all that way came to nothing. The house nearly leveled, the barn razed to the foundations…and no doubt as to where the rest of the family was.

She did the only thing she could do: _run_.

The woodlands swallowed her up as dark clouds boiled overhead and driving wind whipped across the once productive fields. The back of her mind where human consciousness huddled, designated the woodlands as a milestone. She ought to have passed every gym final with flying colors.

Everything exploded. For a single moment she saw a cluster of _creatures_, then the _monsters,_ close enough so she could make out their distinctive shapes. Several of pointed at her, even as weapons glowed faintly in too many hands.

Someone shouted, the sound joining with her own scream as something exploded halfway between the _monsters_ and herself. She slammed back into the trees, landing roughly on the ground. She forced herself to her knees, willing her aching shoulders to move her arms, to prime the shotgun…

…and finished just in time to unload the weapon into the monster's chest, as it hurried towards her, while its fellows were busy. It fell back with a thud. Panic gave her hands enough instruction to prime the shotgun again.

"Someone get that bastard!"

"I got him, I got him!"

She threw herself behind a tree, tripping in her haste to present less of a target as the sounds of arguing weapons crescendoed, then died out. "You get him?" a sharp female voice demanded a moment later.

"With a shotgun? Must've been the kid."

Silence, then, gently, coaxingly, "Honey? You still out there?"

She hunkered down, her mouth very dry, her breathing unsteady. There was no way to prime the weapon silently…

"Hey, kid," this voice amore earnest one, male. "We're Alliance Navy kid, we're here to help. Come on out, now. It's safe."

She _almost_ believed him. Her hands tightened on the shotgun again as she made to slip away. Safe? It wasn't safe. Rising to a half-standing position she made to creep away quietly…

"_Gotcha_."

She screamed, struggling with panic-induced strength greater than normal. Someone grabbed her shotgun barrel in one hand, the other arm trying to restrain her. She _bit_ as hard as she could when a target presented herself. Her teeth sank into the rubberized coating of the armor.

"Whoa!"

The shotgun was wrenched from her hand. She yelped, freeing her teeth, writhing like a slippery fish caught by bare hands, her fingernails poised to find eyes…except there were no eyes, only a blank surface reflecting her own terrified face.

"She's out of her mind! Come on, sweetie…"

She stumbled back, suddenly let loose, drawing back a fist, for all the good it would do her.

_Whack_.

The blow to the breastbone dazed her in a way she never expected. Her knees gave out. She was not allowed to simply fall. Rather, she was lowered to the ground. A hiss, and the helmet came off, revealing a human face beneath. "It's okay, sweetheart," the woman was saying, her stern features crinkled into concern. "Do you understand what I'm saying?"

Glancing at the other shadows, one or two of whom had also removed helmets, she nodded slowly.

"Good, good."

The woman glanced past her at the others. "What's your name, baby-doll?"

She forced herself to look at the human. _Human_. Her jaw worked, her lips moved, but the remembrance of how to form words did not come. She shook her head.

Whether the woman understood the problem or not, she gave no inclination. "It's all right, honey. I'm Lieutenant Robbins, we're here to get you somewhere safe. Nod if you understand, me."

She nodded, then shook her head.

"'No', what?"

She pointed to the dead monsters, unable to explain the absence of any 'safe' places.

"She's out of it, LT."

Robbins pursed her lips. "Come on, sweetie, let's start walking." She pulled the girl to her feet.

For a moment the girl could see them clearly. Then Robbins' subordinates put their helmets back on. The moment discernibly human features vanished, panic blotted out every thought save one: the humans were _gone. _She let a strangled scream, her mind cranking back up to fever-pitch.

One small hand clamped around Robbins' wrist so tightly the woman could feel it through her armor. The girl's face said it all. The lack of recognition of fellow humans when she could not see a face. Terror at being left alone, or meeting more monsters. The need to make sure she did not lose track of the one person she could still identify as human.

Her face screamed, '_hold my hand'_.

"Maguire." He obediently raised his visor, so human eyes peered out of the helmet. Robbins peeled the girl off her wrist, with considerable effort. Placing the girl's hand in Maguire's massive paw, she closed his fingers around it. "Hold her hand. Don't let go, now."

--J--


	3. Childhood

--Childhood--

--J--

Jalissa Shepard sat on the narrow cot in the makeshift orphanage. The partitioned room could have held many children, but housed only four, three boys and Jalissa, all orphans. The youngest of the very few survivors of the raid on Mindoir. They did not talk to one another and of the four Jalissa proved least responsive, animating only when Lieutenant Robbins came by to check on her.

Robbins was not unusual in this. All four rescued children had _someone_ who came to see if they were still alive, to tell them the world wasn't _ended_, just…disrupted. Nice as this was to hear, no amount of saying it could convince the children of its truth.

Right now, Robbins was nowhere Jalissa could see or talk to her, so Jalissa sat mired in misery, a chill unlike any other seeping into her very core. She cried herself out repeatedly, but kept finding more tears, especially at night. When they did sleep, she and the others screamed and cried out in the clutches of vicious nightmares tearing at juvenile minds. Sleep became an enemy, fought until it beat down the will to fight. Only then did they give in, giving up all the usual respect for day and night.

The door at the end of the dorm opened, revealing one of the Alliance doctors. Casualties on Mindoir were heavy, survivors few, so none of the medical staff begrudged the time and effort of trying to patch the kids back together—though no one could do much until the psychological personnel arrived. Until then medigel applied with compassion was the best help available. The doctors were not cruel people, nor even unkind. They were simply helpless to fix wounds no one could see.

"Lunchtime."

The mechanical quality of the movements of the four juveniles, as they filed past the nameless white coat, gave the impression they were more like ghosts than anything else, drifting unmoored in the world, fleeting and transient, interminably _waiting. _

Jalissa did not think of herself as a ghost, or even a zombie. Her agile mind clicked, stuttered and popped behind her blank expression as she tried to evaluate her situation, tried to plan a future. The one she once wanted no longer existed. She could not go back to the farm, nor could she bury her dead—the Alliance wanted the bodies. She refused to raise an issue over this. She did not know what to do with the empty shells of the people she loved, particularly when at least one was less a shell and more…a burnt blob.

Her eyes burned, her throat tightened, but no tears came. Had she finally exhausted the reservoirs of saline behind her eyes? The lack of them left her empty, strangely methodical, and analytical. She could not go back home. She could not stay on Mindoir. She had no other family, which meant an orphanage, or foster care, until she turned eighteen.

Two years. Two years to decide what she wanted to do.

Jalissa sat down at the table with her tray, among the other personnel on lunch. In a quirk Jalissa found decidedly curious, she and the others liked sitting near other humans. They did _not_ want the other humans to talk to them. It must be, her inner analysis continued, a proximity thing.

She supposed there was college…but where? There was nothing, as far as she cared, _left_ here. Mindoir was a small colony to begin with. There were no institutes of higher learning, yet. In any case, what would she study?

Her spoon slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, splattering soup on the table. As her chin sank towards her breastbone, her eyes wide and unblinking, she almost imagined she could see her reflection in the green, murky mass.

She did not know if it was merely the way the dining facility worked, or if it was an attempt to lessen the shock of the survivors, but so far all the food was both familiar and easy to eat. None of it required a great deal of thought. She would almost call it 'comfort food', if the dishes did not smack of cafeterias, hospitals, and insane asylums, though of much better quality.

Tomato soup and cheese sandwiches—the sight of which made Toole showed a spark of life. Macaroni and cheese—caused Gabe, the youngest, to tear up. Jalissa had expected him to bolt from the dining room that day, but he had not. He simply sat there, spooning macaroni into his mouth, tears sliding down his childhood-soft cheeks.

It was cruel. So cruel.

"Jalissa?" A hand touched her shoulder.

Jalissa flinched, picked up her spoon again, and began mechanically eating with greater speed than usual. Shoveling down sustenance so no one would fuss, however gently, about eating properly.

The empty future still lay like blank canvas before her.

Anger suddenly licked up her insides, blazing from dead ashes to an inferno which made her hands shake. This was _their _fault_. All their fault_. They had not stolen her dreams: they destroyed them, leaving shattered pieces and shrapnel to drift like space junk in her soul, tearing into whatever the sharp edges came in contact with.

An ugly look passing over her face like a cloud over the moon, somehow making the hollows in her face and the shadows under her eyes more prominent. She could enlist. She had not wanted to, before _they_ came. But now…Robbins, even Maguire, told her how so many frigates, members of the navy and the marines, spent time in the Traverse, picking off raiding parties, mercenary bands, general scum in the universe.

Wouldn't that be something? Put her in a place where she could bury the pain, could do something about the _creatures_ that so carelessly crushed her life.

Why did they do it? Not for ideology. Not even a vague concept like freedom.

Slavery. Money.

_They're bastards. They're all bastards_.

Jalissa ate steadily, the tattered remnants of her childhood burning as she watched.

--J--


	4. Michief Managed

--Mischief Managed--

--

The Alliance took the orphaned survivors into custody, and eventually moved them to a space station, their status pending until things could be unraveled and next of kin tracked down, if any existed.

Jalissa Shepard did not intend to let someone ship her to Earth, or anywhere else. Her entire family had died on Mindoir, she knew of no other relatives. There was nothing and no one to look for—she would have her own way.

This in mind, Jalissa did not intend to wait until she hit the age of eighteen before deciding on a plan of action. Not after Toole got hold of something sharp and put it to his throat. In the dormitory.

No, she could not spend two years _waiting_. She _couldn't_. She desperately did not want to follow Toole's example, not while she was awake, alert and able to plan and scheme.

But when the nightmares came in the night, resolutions were always hardest to keep.

The psychologist charged with helping 'put her back together' might not engender _trust_ in the shattered teen, but Jalissa had already come to the conclusion: the only way to move forward was to let them do whatever they had to do. No matter how much she wanted to stare blankly at a wall and ignore them or see what it took to piss them off, she had to cooperate.

No, provoking the psychologist would not help, and would only make people wary of her.

And she did not want people wary. Not when she meant to enlist. There was nothing else for it. The endless hours of 'what am I to do?' always spiraled down to the same answer: lie about your age, and enlist. It simply would take the right sort of recruiter, and making the right sort of impressions. Coming out of the wreckage of Mindoir, the matter was far less complicated than if they had survived.

She did not want to admit it, but she was counting on human sympathy for a Mindoiran orphan as much as a recruiter who wanted to fill his quota. The idea made her stomach burn, but with a severe lack of other options and an unwillingness to wait, Jalissa could live with the acidic burning of unease.

This was why she spent afternoons over the past few weeks haunting the stationside recruiters' offices, asking questions as she tried to determine which branch she wanted to join. Stations always wanted to recruit the resident's kids—they were already acclimated to living off-planet.

Branch was a major concern but more than that branched would be ruled by which recruiters asked the fewest questions about her background.

She could wait until she was seventeen, then she only had to keep her mouth shut for a year—or so she convinced herself. Once she was eighteen, what was the point of kicking her out over a trivial thing like age? And who said they _would _find out?

Growing up in a home that did not condone lying, the amount of little white lies and several bigger ones she touted made Jalissa's stomach cringe again. The cringing turned to nausea when she considered trying to hold out until her eighteenth birthday. No, the lies she could live with.

This little bit of mischief was all it would take. If she could win brownie points with the recruiters for showing intelligence, interest and open-mindedness—letting them promise her a pool and a puppy as two practically had—the mischief would manage itself. If no one asked the hard questions, or questioned her answers, no one need know she was not being entirely truthful.

"So, what do you think?" The marine recruiter asked, leaning comfortably on her desk.

Jalissa jumped at the break in her reverie, then plastered on a fake smile. "I think the marines definitely sound like the way to go. As soon as I hit the magic age, of course." Oh yes, always remind them of the magic age, of the willingness to wait, to obey the rules to the letter. High school taught you that might: how to play the rules and people's impressions of you, to your favor. How to bend both so no one really noticed.

"Good! Glad to hear it."

Jalissa looked at the calendar. Six months. She could stand living in an orphanage or simply in limbo while bureaucracy tried to figure out what to _do_ with her for six months. It would take at least that long for all the red tape to unravel, or so she gathered.

"You know, we could get a jump start on the paperwork—I could keep it safe, until the time comes. Save you a bit of hassle later."

Jalissa resisted the urge to smile. Who knew her first major attempt at manipulating people would go over so well? Granted, there was a lot of time for something to go wrong, but for the moment…

Overeager, the recruited would probably pull the 'but you're so close to basic anyway' line if Jalissa showed signs of wanting to go somewhere else. "Let's do that. I hate paperwork."

As if the recruiter expected such an answer, Jalissa found herself consulting a datapad. After the first few lines of the form, her heart skipped a couple of beats as she penned:

_**Full Name: **__Jalissa Aileen Shepard__** Date of Birth**__**(JC**__)*: April 11, 2153**_

After a lot more repeating information, struggling to double check her numbers without appearing to do so, Jalissa finally handed over the datapad, unsigned, to the recruiter, who smiled, tucking it into a drawer of her desk. "I'll see you in six months."

Jalissa's stomach wobbled at the thought of basic, but it did not show on her face. She hoped. "Yeah, you will."

Jalissa let the recruiter walk her to the door. She could not help smiling faintly, which anyone would take as pride at making such a mature decision on her own.

What she really thought was _mischief managed._

--Author's Notes--

*JC: Julian Calendar

**This is the DOB provided for Shepard by the Mass Effect Wiki


	5. Creation

--Creation--

--

It did not take long for This Recruit (who formerly called herself Jalissa Shepard) to discover that keeping a secret, such as her proper age, and her usual disposition for striving towards excellence were not compatible. Perhaps she ought to have seen it coming, or perhaps she had never given it proper thought, but the realization caught up with her eventually.

In some ways, it was easier to exist when you were This Recruit, instead of a person with a name, and a past, likes and dislikes.

All This Recruit knew about boot camp was what she'd seen in vids. The truth was somewhat different…though the vids did get one thing right: it did not matter what you did or said, you were wrong. And the drill instructors liked you wrong. Recruits were wrong, because it was safe to be wrong in boot camp. They were expected to be _right_ in the real world, once the instructors had corrected all their 'wrong' behaviors and thought processes.

They also hated it when you were _right_, and being right attracted far more attention than being wrong.

Which was a complete reversal of everything This Recruit had learned up until that point.

For instance, the question so often shouted at the recruits was whether they had come from—and here the DI would insert a profanity laced Podunk destination—just to piss them off.

The correct answer 'SIR, NO SIR!' inevitably brought further shouting and abuse, and they would come back to you again later, to see if you'd learned anything. Namely that telling them what they wanted to hear was not going to work.

The _wrong_ answer 'SIR, YES SIR!' inevitably invited a trip to the gig pit and as many pushups as the instructor could stomach watching. And they had long attention spans, commensurate with the amount of volume they could generate as they shouted while said push-ups were knocked out. However, the instructor was more likely to _not_ pick on you the next time around.

This Recruit spent several days figuring out the paradox of right and wrong. People who were 'right' tended to keep a lot of attention focused on them. People who were wrong suffered more pushups, more sit ups, more everything…but tended to have longer breaks between rounds of punishment. And This Recruit wanted to stay off the record.

She did not intend to distinguish herself in any way, for another twelve months. In twelve months she was eighteen. If they found out somehow—she was not sure _how_ they could, but guilty conscience gnawed at her like hidden obsession—there was little they could or would do about it. She'd be trained and posted.

If they somehow found out before…

…so This Recruit clenched her teeth and learned to tune out all but the important words—drop, go eat, sleep, stand up, hit the showers—drowning the meaningless raging in the sounds of howling varren packs. The most blood chilling, mind-shaking sound she could find.

One hungry varren was no match for a shotgun. A pack of hungry varren meant trouble for a lone farmer.

It was at four weeks, when she could run mindlessly, knockout pushups mindlessly, that she realized what she was. She was not a marine—as the instructors kept shouting. She was also not any of the endearing terms the instructors liked to hurl about. In fact, her ears had gone nearly numb to the profanities by the fourth day. It was like being back in high school, when the teachers weren't in earshot.

She was, not Jalissa Shepard of Mindoir. Nor would she be, until the duration basic elapsed, and she was allowed to join the proud ranks of the marines with a name, rank, and serial number. She was, at this point, a half-finished creation. A new creature having the bubble wrap of everything she knew sheared off in long, painful strips. The skin did not numb to the pain, but there was less to strip away from her than from others.

They had family to think about. Loved ones to write to, or hear from…or from whom the instructors could cut them off.

She had graves and a burned homestead. They could not use correspondence against her. But they could still kick where it hurt. And did.

Some of the recruits had hopes, ambitions, or preconceived notions about where they belonged in the scheme of things.

She had nothing to go back to. This was it, the beginning and the end. She would let the Alliance tell her where to sit. They could not tell her she had to stay there. She was young. She—like others in this group—had the rest of her life to advance and be recognized. What was a year, or eighteen months, in comparison with the years stretching empty before her?

The instructors' jobs were to break down the recruits, to reprogram them, to cull out sloppy habits, then to rebuilt them, reforge them in the image the Alliance wanted them to take on.

But This Recruit was slyer than most. She knew the real right answers: to keep her head down, and let them dole out exercise like candy at a parade. The more you had to _do_, the less time they had to suck out your brain, the process from which marines derived the moniker _jarheads._

It was like psychological counseling after Mindoir. She didn't want to talk to them. She didn't want them to stick their highly-educated, over-sympathetic noses where they didn't belong. But she did want to move on, to get it over with as painlessly as possible. The same principles applied here.

Jump through the hoops, or stay put.

Suck it up while you have to, or the process drags on.

And become a new creation. And _this_ time, when the shouts of harsh voices and powerful lungs finally faded from her ringing ears, she would end up with the power to determine what, exactly 'that creation' was.


	6. Rainbow

--Rainbow--

--

Shepard's entire class at boot camp lived in fear of the hand-to-hand instructor Mike Yamada. If he had not put all of them in a hurtlock, he might have drawn some amusement, being shorter than Shepard, though wider. An 'N' himself—combat specialist, as he insisted on appending—his retirement from field work landed him here, teaching the greenest recruits he ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon how not to get killed if their fancy firearms failed.

He was also a believer in alliteration—a vaguely familiar word Shepard frowned at, until she looked it up. Even more surprising was the fact he never seemed to stumble over the words, no matter how complex. Shepard—along with a good many others—would have loved to give him a copy of the children's classic '_Fox in Socks' _and see what he made of it.

This would represent a deathwish, however, so they refrained—but joked about it after particularly long, difficult days of which there were many. But this was boot camp, it was not meant to be easy.

Easy, hard or indifferent, after the first day the recruits all came to the same conclusion: Mike Yamada did _not_ like his job as an instructor. Teaching rookies had to be a real come-down for an N.

The first day, they thought he broke Tommy Blake's arm while 'demonstrating'. As it turned out, the injury was not as bad as feared. Tommy reappeared with a tendonitis band on his lower arm before the next day, cursing Yamada as the most evil individual he ever had the misfortune to meet.

All feared Yamada. Especially when, after Tommy returned, he put them all through the wringer for presuming to doubt his ability to avoid severely damaging one of his recruits.

Shepard, like the others, hated Yamada, particularly as one of his teaching styles was to—more or less—pound on a recruit until he or she gave up. There was never any verbal recrimination when someone called it quits—though there were usually laps run around the barracks before which these lessons took place—but everyone felt the sting of some unseen barb or whip as they ran.

And it was impossible to get one _over_ on Yamada. He sometimes gave the impression of reading minds. Two of the other female recruits were more terrified of Yamada than of all the batarians in the Terminus Systems.

Of course, they never met a batarian face to face, and Shepard knew which one was worse.

Still, Yamada was bad enough.

No one noticed it took a little longer each week for Yamada to get people to give up. Everyone cheered—then mourned the repercussions—when someone _did_ manage to get a hit in. Half way through boot camp, half the recruits hated Yamada more than they feared him…right up until they presented themselves in front of him for the daily lesson.

He was easier to hate when he did not stand glowering, exuding intimidation from every pore in his body.

The angrier a recruit managed to get, the less it seemed to bother Yamada. The man was like a stone, taking extraordinary forces to weather, chip, or split.

Shepard broke out of her reverie as Yamada's first punch landed against her upraised forearm. Little shocks of pain shook the bones, but the block held. Her punch did not go so well, though she managed to avoid having her arm caught by Yamada. If he caught you by the arm, it was all over—it was also a favorite move of his, and by now most of the recruits could predict it, even if some still had trouble avoiding it.

Turning a half step let her hip catch his kick—better than letting him plant that boot in her stomach.

Shepard returned the kick, but Yamada caught her by the ankle. "What do I tell you about that kung-fu crap?" he asked, with an irritated sigh.

The fight went downhill for Shepard after this, but the lesson of _don't let him catch your ankle when you kick _sunk in deep, driven further by aches and pains. Finally she hit the ground, aching more than ever, feeling bitter and resentful.

Even so, she remembered not to come at him swinging, with bitter resentment as fuel. He would put her back on the ground twice as fast if she sacrificed thought for a burst of strength.

Shepard grit her teeth as she rolled onto her stomach, not quite beaten into submission—but getting there. She glared up at Yamada, her mouth trembling as pain washed through her.

Then she smiled at him. A grim, defiant smile which told Yamada plainly she had found the rainbow of promise. _She_ wouldn't be here forever. _She_ would graduate and get going. And _he_ would be stuck here, giving green recruits grief.

How was _that_ for alliteration?

"You can kill me," Shepard growled, not moving to clutch her throbbing arm, knowing it would catch Yamada's attention, and her next comment would attracted plenty of that. "But you can't eat me. It's cannibalism, and it's against the law."

A deadly silence fell over the class.

Yamada shrugged, as though to say 'have it your way'. He moved to put his foot on Shepard's arm—she knew it was not broken, only very painful.

She pivoted, her heel slamming into his knee. He just broke one of his own rules: don't got near them, unless you're sure your opponent is 'dead'.

Yamada stifled a cry of pain, his knee buckling as Shepard clumsily got to her knees.

She never really knew what happened. Her last memory before waking up in the infirmary was seeing Yamada's foot heading right for her face and a burst of little rainbows—but not the rainbows of promise she wanted.

She also thought she saw something similar to approval, but did not get to look at the expression long enough to decide before blackness cut off her vision.


	7. Gray

--Gray--

---

The lowlight filter on Shepard's helmet rendered everything in shades of blue-tinged gray. The disorienting effect reminded her of a gamma slider on a video game set too high. Unlike with the gamma slider, she could not adjust the lowlight filter—it adjusted in accordance with the light.

Night vision was easier on the eyes. The Alliance had a horrible solution to lowlight vision problems.

The overall effect ended up disorienting in the extreme, to the point Shepard misjudged distances, without proper shadows to aid depth perception. This was, according to the instructor before she turned the half-dozen recruits into the lowlight acclimation cell, 'normal'. Shepard did not quite believe 'the effects will wear off—you'll get used to it'.

The grayscale made movement look somehow unreal.

Shepard began to move forward, knowing if she did not…well, there were always repercussions for failing to move forward in basic. And if the team was to be denied ice cream, or something, because someone flubbed the exercises, the ice cream loss would not fall on _her_ shoulders.

If you wanted ice cream in this outfit, you worked for it. The instructors had the motivation and incentives down to a fine art. At least Yamada's daily beatings were over. Now they were bi-weekly.

Shepard opened the door, her movements deliberate. The grayscale adjusted in the next room, causing her eyes to cross then reorient. It took her a moment to realize a paper target was moving at her. She raised her pistol, letting off two rounds, her body remembering how to breathe to shoot without conscious effort on her part.

Two dark splotches appeared on the target. She could not tell what color paintball she was using, and wished she could. The wish dissipated like a candle, snuffed out as the target pulled back to its original lurking place.

The next room was a brutal assault on her eyes for the first few moments, so much so she did not see the next target until it was almost on top of her, certainly much closer than she wanted any enemy to be. The upside was her aim was better at close range.

The target lurking behind the first 'got' her.

She hated grayscale. Hated it as much as she hated Yamada's form of teaching.

--J--

Shepard sat with the lowlight visor on the table before her. Before now, she succeeded in drawing relatively little attention to herself either good or bad. But it seemed to her she finally met her match with this stupid contraption. Disabling it the illumination protocols was not an option. If it were, she would take it in a heartbeat, just to see if she could survive the course without the mind-fooling grayscale.

Encouragement that, once she was used to it, she would not need to acclimate again did not help. She got up, carrying the visor with her, as the instructor called her name. Thankfully, she was not the only one having problems—half the class was on their third try, which only went to prove adjusting to lowlight was harder than most things.

This time, she noticed her eyes adjusted to the strange filter a little more quickly. Unfortunately, the targets never moved the same way twice, making finishing the course by memory alone impossible. But the marginal speed at which she adjusted, the fewer fumbles as she completed the manual tasks in the room—those thankfully stayed the same—gave her some hope. The day before, on her second iteration, she noticed no difference from the first day.

If she relaxed her eye muscles—something hard to do at will and easy to do when not paying attention—the shadowless grayscale strangeness did not trouble her so much.

Was it all due to the draining of color? The visual cues of warning? Such as how red berries were often dangerous. How red toadstools should be avoided? How leaves turned color in the autumn? But space stations were gray and colorless, mostly.

But they _did_ have proper shadows.

Shepard finished the task, moving towards the door, pistol at the ready. She saw the target move farther back than ever, a pale gray sheet growing clearer as it shifted in diagonal tracks towards her. For a moment her arms no longer looked as though the belonged to a gamma-bright screen, but to an actual person.

Suddenly acclimation made sense. It was not training oneself to accept a world in grayscale. It was learning what to look for in the gray. Learning the visual cues in a world drained of color and shadow. The over-bright room still dazzled her eyes as the filter adjusted. It took no less time for her eyes to adjust, but she picked out the brightest shade of white as the filter continued to calibrate. Supposedly, the 'real thing' worked faster, this being last generation junk, used to keep recruits from getting lazy.

Two dark splotches appeared on the target, as a second target ambushed her. That one moved before she let loose her first volley of rounds. One went too wide, but the other impacted exactly where she wanted.

She nearly tripped over a camouflaged obstacle. The lowlight's distortion of shadows got her, yet again. Shepard never appreciated shadows and color as much as she did while stuck behind the Gray Veil. At least she still had her ears, and at least she got a little farther with every session.

She did not hope to complete the course this time around. Not when she felt like a lab rat in amaze. To hope was to end up feeling let down when she inevitably failed to complete her objective. Focus on the objective.

Her eyes, while she mentally braced herself for failure, relaxed, giving the impression of reality rather than 'surreality'. She climbed up over the next obstacle without thinking, noting the over bright facet as a minor detail. Without shadows, she still had planes where light fell more strongly, white shapes punctuating the overall gray.


	8. Seeing Red

--Seeing Red--

--

It took a lot of effort for Shepard not to suck air as she stepped out of the airlock. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest as she started forward, each step slow and deliberate, the gravity locks in her boots gripping the deck tightly, pulling free only with concentrated effort.

"_All right, nice and easy, Shepard,_" the guiding voice crackled in her helmet radio.

Shepard closed the airlock behind her, her mind focused on procedure as she clipped her lifeline to the bar running along this part of the spacecraft, and clipped the other end to her armor. Part of zee-gee training involved spacewalking, which while safer than two hundred years ago, was _not_ a natural act. Shepard had already seen several cadets returned to the airlock with breakfast all over their face-shields.

The key was not to rush. The instructors would not try anything funny on you first space walk—they did not want marines losing their nerve too early in the training. After all, as most of the instructors were fond of quoting: _every marine a rifleman, every rifleman zee-gee certified. Now get out there._

Shepard knew the lifeline would not let her drift very far, only a matter if six feet or so, far enough to drive home the point of 'be careful', but it did look _so_ frail and thin.

Her boots connected to the side of the ship with a clunk that was less sound and more feel. She only noticed it because that was the step, which took her away from the railing, so she could no longer anchor herself to the ship with something other than her lifeline. Being out here, like a fly on the outside of a window, staggered her thought processes. Even the simplest, most basic ones.

She took a deep breath, not realizing until involuntary response took over, that she had begun holding her breath.

"_All right, Recruit—find the flag." _

It was pointless, most of the time, to try and maintain a visual in space. However, with the training ship orbiting above the moon's surface, the scope of places to look became somewhat limited. Shepard's stomach sank as she realized the flag was likely to be somewhere strange.

Moving to the 'edge' of the ship, she crouched, trying to peer at the plane below, without losing her nerve at the feeling of precariousness. Her mind still functions with certain understandings of gravity, and if she leaned over too far she would fall…plummeting straight for the pitter surface below.

Sure enough, hanging silently and backed by the vastness of space was the red flag.

Disorientation stopped Shepard as she reached up for the lifeline's bar, anchoring herself. To get to the flag meant walking upside down, with regards to the usual orientation of head and feet. It also meant changing lifeline bars. If she was right, the last ten feet or so were unanchored.

Swallowing hard, Shepard clipped her end of the lifeline to the low handhold, used it to maneuver back to the airlock, clipped that end of the lifeline to her suit, and made her way back to that horrible edge.

At least the training vessel had anchor bars for the lifelines. Security blankets for baby marines, space walking for the first time.

She took a deep breath before pulling her lifeline taut, as though she meant to haul the ship after her, and took a few tentative steps. She closed her eyes for the last three, the ones that would put her perpendicular to the plane she stood on now.

Shepard understood why some of the others puked their guts up. Her stomach quavered as she looked _up_ at the moon, instead of _down_ at it, her vision hazed by the condensation on her face-shield. She closed her eyes and brought herself to stand on the ship's undercarriage.

The red flag caught her attention, unmoving in the darkness, several instructors sitting unobtrusively along the way, watching to make sure nothing went amiss. Her eyes fixed on her target, the only scrap of color in the black and white void of space.

"_Hey, Shepard._"

"Yeah?" Her voice came out husky.

"_Catch the view._"

Shepard did not want to—she knew what the moon looked like. However, she checked that the flag was there before obediently turning around.

She immediately wished she had not. Until now, she had avoided taking more than a few seconds' look at a time anywhere that was not at her feet. Her eyes slipped instinctively past the moon's surface into deep space, an unending, unbroken eternity of black and stars.

Space hypnosis, her mind reeled off as she gaped. Even her breathing slowed as she struggled to stop staring, mental images of things that were red (_tomato, apple, sunset, blood_) and flags (_marines, __Earth, Alliance, training_) flashing through her mind.

Shepard tore her eyes from the infinity beyond the moon, turned on the spot, and again moved towards the red flag. It loomed larger and larger as she walked. She knelt when she reached the end of the anchor bar, her lifeline pulling taut. She unclipped her lifeline from her armor, attaching it to a nearby hook.

Her teeth remained clenched as, after long struggle with herself, she pushed forward.

The little red flag was the only thing she wanted to see. The fact that the flag actually hung near an airlock escaped her. All she wanted was to see red, grab red, and get back inside the ship, where gravity acted normally.

She reached the flag after a lifetime of slow progress. Unhooking it from its fastenings, she clipped it to her lifeline's hook.

"_All right, Recruit, dead ahead to the airlock_. _How was it?"_

Shepard did not confess the truth, for she could not make her brain render the statement in any way comprehensive. The fact remained that this whole exercise had her seeing red, and not in the usual way.

If nothing else, she knew this: she hated zee-gee.


	9. Rated

Superfluous Author's Notes:

* Floors are traditionally painted a different color from ceilings and walls, to establish a point of reference.

**Gravlock—personal gravitation system in the boots.

***Artificial Gravity

--Rated--

---

Jalissa Shepard grit her teeth as gravity vanished, releasing her from the blue-painted floor*. She slung her rifle across her shoulders. It was harder to get to than if she hung it from one shoulder only, but in a zero gravity environment she needed all the advantages of mobility she could get. Her stomach churned as she reached for the gravlock** on her boots.

"_Sorry Shepard_. _Not today," _Gunnery Chief Iverson drawled in her ear. Gunny Iverson proudly wore the title 'Dungeon Master', garnered as he oversaw these training evolutions with near omniscience.

If she hadn't checked, he'd have complained about her lack of procedure. Everyone _knew_ Alliance standard-issue suits had gravlock systems built into the boots. It was why space servicemen's feet looked so big when wearing armor.

Shepard hated zee-gee, and intended to gain her rating therein as quickly as possible. She might move slowly, compared to others, but she made fewer mistakes and—as Iverson liked to point out—_mis_takes in zee-gee, or zee-gee combat, were more important than finishing fast.

It took Shepard a moment of drifting before she caught hold of the handrungs, fastened to the left and right sides of the corridor. Frigates rarely had such handholds, due to their smaller size, but the big behemoths did. Otherwise things went crazy instead of merely chaotic, when a-grav*** malfunctioned.

Nauseated by the lack of gravity, feeling somewhat ridiculous as she pulled her way to the door, Shepard switched sides of the corridor, kicking off the wall, and catching the handholds on the other side of the corridor. Reaching down, she palmed the lock open.

It buzzed, blinking red.

She couldn't hear Iverson laughing, but he had to be. Iverson did not give apocalypse scenarios to his green recruits—he taught them to stay alive. He did, however, taken almost perverse pleasure in making recruits he considered 'promising' _stretch_ themselves. Hence, why the door opened so sweetly for the last recruit, but now remained steadfastly closed.

Hooking her elbow through the rung, Shepard activated her omni-tool, trying to open the door that way. Without better training, she knew she would not be able to pull something like this off—much less hack Iverson's control, and take over the exercise—but this was not real-life, and by showing she knew the steps to take, whether she could do them or not, meant he would have less to criticize.

It also meant he would make the next iteration more difficult. Oh well, at least she'd improve quickly and get the all-important rating.

The omni-tool beeped at her, indicating the attempt to hack the lock had failed. She monkeyed her way back to the emergency hatch, sliding up into it feet-first, like an eel. The dark confined space of the emergency access tubes would let her bypass the door below, unless those were sealed too—as in the case of leaks, or environmental contamination.

In this case, the door was simply blocked. Her omni-tool's scan gave no signs of fire, or any environmental concern, past the absence of gravity. "This is Shepard to engineering. Anyone down there receiving?"

"_Engineering_," Iverson's voice responded blandly. "_We're glad to hear you_."

"What's your status?" Always, _always_ check status. Her original all-call had produced no response signals, which meant—in the spirit of the exercise—engineering was dealing with the core leak, the protective protocols separating the 'engineers', the core, and her demanding more proximity before they would function.

The scenarios Iverson came up with…

"_Core leak, a-grav failure, complete catastrophe. How're you planning to get us out_?"

"How's the secondary a-grav?" Shepard struggled to remember about secondary a-grav. Emergency measure only, it _would_ let her walk on the floor, but would _not_ keep her from drifting if she got knocked about.

"_Af…negative, Shepard. Secondary a-grav is malfunctioning._"

Malfunctions could be fixed. Shepard slid out of the access tube. "Engage emergency protocols, I'm going to lock down the ship." Iverson had better declare her zee-gee certified after this stupid run.

"_Initiating emergency protocols—I don't want to roast, Shepard_."

"If the core is leaking, then you're not _in_ engineering. You'll be all right, once emergency measures are deployed. Just stay calm, it'll be all right."

"_Famous last words, Shepard. You're already running slow_."

But, as far as she had the manual for this sort of thing memorized, she hadn't missed any steps. That would impress Iverson more than a fast time and forgetting to check gravlock on boots, or something equally simple.

Shepard made for the nearest access station. Working upside down was difficult, but she managed to key in, routing her 'clearance' from 'shipboard computers' at her 'duty station' through her omni-tool, to the dummy ship's computers.

Shepard finally repaired secondary a-grav, grateful to have her feet firmly on the floor, when Iverson suddenly began shouting in her ear. "_Shepard! You've got bogies!"_ Three words she hated above most others: you've got bogies.

Without thinking, her hand dashed across the screen, disengaging the secondary a-grav on this deck, but not the others. As her feet lifted from the ground Shepard kicked free of the console, knocking into the instructor as he struggled in the sudden relapse of zee-gee.

Grabbing his knife wrist, all he saw was Shepard's open palm headed towards his face, Yamada-esque.

_Thunk_.

The emergency lights stopped flashing, proper gravity resumed, duping Shepard and the instructor to the ground before her pretended blow landed. "Ouch." Shepard could not stop the whiny civilian statement from escaping her lips. Armor did not cushion a person against bone-jarring thuds.

Iverson appeared, amused by the look Shepard gave him as she tried to conceal her dislike of sadistic instructors. "Well, Shepard…you're officially zee-gee rated. You okay, Zed?"

Zed gave the thumbs-up.

Shepard heaved a sigh. It was over. She was rated…

"Shepard!" Iverson barked, startling her out of her sense of relief.

"Sir, yes, sir!"

"You're done! Get off my training ground." Iverson jerked a thumb over his shoulder, as though to say 'scram'.


	10. Standing Still

--Standing Still--

--

Private Second Class Jalissa Shepard felt as though she was standing still. As she and her fellow class of new marines disembarked the transport onto Earth's solid shores, friends, family, and significant others cheered, waving as they tried to attract the attention of dearly missed loved ones.

The sounds of enthusiasm and reunions made Shepard feel alien. Something so far removed from those around her, that for a few minutes she was not sure why she was standing there, watching.

Outside, looking in.

It caused her a twinge of pain she meticulously kept off her face, watching hugs, kisses, and glad welcomes, knowing if any of these things waited for her, she would not be standing _here_, of all places.

Yet, she could not look away. Unlike most, she had not bonded with anyone in basic. She kept her head down, her mouth shut, and learned by rote those things they would be drilled on.

It showed when she disassembled a weapon, or when she had to find her way with a map and compass—an exercise most people felt was useless, since uncharted worlds were called 'uncharted' for a reason. She showed exacting perfectionist tendencies for anything she could learn from a book or training manual.

Perfectionist tendencies, but always keeping herself just short of excellence. She was not ready to draw, attention yet.

This dedication kept her off the social front. People got used to her self-imposed isolationism. Everyone knew the rumors, about Mindoir and her. The words were both shield and stigma. No one knew how much was still broken, rattling around inside the quiet recruit. Even if her reputation characterized her as aloof, asocial, even rude, it did not bother her.

It might have done if she was still a farmer's daughter, but Shepard preferred it this way, now that she was not. She did not want people picking at her psychological scabs—goodness knew she had enough difficulty in not doing so herself. The more she left them alone, the fewer people who prodded them to see if she reacted, the quicker the wounds would scar over.

Still…it would have been nice if there was someone here who knew her from before boot camp. Someone who could see any changes, and weigh in on whether they were good or not.

The bright sun over the tarmac landing field made Shepard's shadow dark and short on the ground. The brim of her hat provided welcome shade against it. She could not, should not, stand here forever, with her bag in one hand and a dispassionate look on her face. It would attract attention. Long habit of avoiding attention would, she knew, last for awhile yet.

The feeling of standing still amidst a moving crowd, of being wholly apart from it, left her feeling uncomfortable. Like carrying a bazooka at a wedding, or a watching krogan in a ballet.

She did not notice that her shadow was not the only one standing back, and watching the reunions. "You'd think," a female voice noted with distaste, "we'd just got back from fighting bad guys on the frontier. They even bought out the band."

Shepard found the woman looking at her, as if inviting her to share a joke—though why, she could not imagine. They had not been in the same class, but did not mean much. The training grounds were only so big, and you learned to recognize faces. She was not sure of the woman's surname. It might have started with an 'O', because Shepard vaguely remembered someone's uncomplimentary terms for an Irish girl.

_Just_ before this woman, and the loudmouth, made their way the gig pit.

This woman had spent quite a bit of time in the gig pit, and went _cheerfully_. Why she stayed cheerful about going once she got there, and why she seemed to like the place, remained a mystery.

"You're that Shepard kid, right?"

"Yeah." Kid? By now, she felt very wrong-footed. Up ahead, the crowd began dispersing.

"O'Conner. And I _don't_ want to hear any wisecracks out of _you_," but O'Conner held out a hand.

Shepard shook it automatically.

"You're heading for the _Midway_, aren't you? Saw it on the postings roster." O'Conner grinned at Shepard's surprised look.

"Yes." Why ask, if she already knew?

"So'm I." O'Conner's broad grin revealed slightly crooked teeth.

"Right. S-shouldn't you…don't you want to go see your family?" Shepard nodded ahead.

O'Conner snorted. "Don't have one. It's okay, doesn't matter. Come on—if we're still standing around when the instructors get their coffee-pounding gizzards off the transport…"

"Do you honestly _enjoy_ being sent to the gig pit?" O'Conner might feel comfortable slamming the instructors—not yet disembarked—but _she_ did not trust them not to have some way to make life miserable for another few hours.

"You _do_ get used to it. I'd rather sweat it out than listen to those guys shouting at me all day. And they say it's the gunfire that ruins our ears…" Shaking her head, O'Conner hefted her bag. "Besides, what can they do? We are _out_ from under their _boots_…too bad. I think Yamada was getting fond of me."

Shepard shuddered at the mere thought of Yamada. She could not hear the name without seeing little rainbows explode across her vision. "They'll find a way."

"Yeah, they probably _will_. _If_ we're here to harass. Let's not give them any last chances. One foot in front of the other. Off we go!"

Without thinking, utterly perplexed, Shepard followed O'Conner's brisk march. She had not spoken twelve words to O'Conner, and now O'Conner was making plans to go out and have some non-regulated _fun_.

From the sound of it, she meant to drag Shepard along. Shepard had never felt roped into being someone's friend, but it looked as though this was _exactly_ what O'Conner had in mind.

Only as they left the landing field did it occur to Shepard, that she no longer felt as though she was standing still.


	11. Insanity

--Insanity--

--

Private Second Class Gina O'Conner took a deep breath, ready to start shouting. Profanity—and eloquent strings thereof—failed her. So, she was ready to start shouting. It was intolerable, the situation in which she found herself. As thunder boomed above her, rain beating down on the eaves of the walkway before this block of apartments, she supposed she ought to feel some gratitude that irony threw nothing more than water at her.

O'Conner never hung about with anyone who insisted on quoting old adages to her, not even useful ones, like _measure twice, cut once_, or _make haste, slowly_. She tended to find argument with any one of these phrases, though the intent remained plain, and applicable. If she had not gotten into such a rush, she would never have locked herself out of her apartment. Such actions should constrain themselves to hapless teenagers, _not_ Alliance marines.

She tried manually unlocking the door, but had neither the tools nor the skills to use the tools even if she had them. All these locks had electronic components now, and she never developed the skills for dealing with such things. Her expertise, mostly, lay with putting rifle rounds in the ten-ring.

O'Conner kicked the door, earning herself a sore toe, and more irritation. Giving the door a half-hearted pound, as if hoping this would disengage the lock, she shook her head. There was only one thing left: she'd have to call in the big guns. At _worst_, Shepard would rake her over the coals. If she, O'Conner, kept this up, she would fail to break into her own apartment, slip off the back windowsill and plummet to a horrific duration of recovery.

The fall was not enough to kill her.

--J--

When O'Conner called before dawn, citing an emergency and asking Shepard to bring her omni-tool, Shepard seriously considered going back to sleep. She did not follow through with this course of action. O'Conner made it clear during the time between climbing off the transport from basic to now, that she and Shepard were friends. End of story.

Shepard initially had no say in the matter, which made her smile ruefully even now. She could admit to liking O'Conner. She could even admit liking to have O'Conner as a friend. But calls this early after a late night taxed a burgeoning friendship. The glare of red digits on the clock reminded Shepard of the long day ahead of her. Blast O'Conner and her morning jogging…

Shepard, yawning and shuffling, heard O'Conner before she came into view.

O'Conner's litany of abuse was not clearly audible, but having heard similar words often enough in basic gave Shepard a good idea what O'Conner meant. She did worry about O'Conner getting so worked up this early in the morning.

It wasn't healthy.

"I'm here…" Shepard ended up having to repeat this, since she yawned halfway through. "It's too early."

"Shepard!" O'Conner's eyes darted to Shepard's wrist. "…you know anything about locks?"

Shepard stifled another yawn. "What kind of…oh, you _didn't_…" O'Conner's door bore distinct black marks at ankle height. Apparently O'Conner had done more than swear at the door. No wonder it remained resolutely locked.

"Yeah, I know." O'Conner waved. "I figured, you'd, you know…"

"It's all 'geek' to you. I know." Shepard, smiling at the number of times O'Conner could put on word or phrase in a sentence, examined the lock. There was no point asking why O'Conner could not have gone jogging, waiting until later to have the lock looked at. Knowing O'Conner as she did—which was not well, but O'Conner was not hard to get to know—Shepard was sure O'Conner simply left something in her apartment she needed. Couldn't a runner survive without jogging music?

Shepard prodded the lock, making a show of frowning thoughtfully. This was not unlike the locks back at her high school on Mindoir. Shepard cut the thought, constraining herself to the matter at hand. "I dunno, O'Conner…you may need to call a locksmith."

"Can you _try_?"

Shepard tried, deliberately failing twice. "Do you know what the definition of insanity is?"

"You, punishing me for dragging you out of your shoebox last week?" O'Conner asked, in a tone of long suffering.

"Close." Last week's trip off base ended up wilder than Shepard anticipated, culminating in a bar fight—Shepard's first. She was _still_ unsure how O'Conner got them out of the aftermath, with only a slap on the wrists from the local law enforcement, but she had. "But no."

"What?" O'Conner frowned at the back of Shepard's head.

"The definition of insanity is the unvarying repetition of an action or series of actions in the hopes of producing a different outcome."

"You don't eat fortune cookies for breakfast, do you?" O'Conner asked, with teasing interest.

"I'm saying if it doesn't work this time, I'm not delving into the realm of insanity this early in the morning, because you locked your keys in the house."

Surely Shepard wasn't developing a _sense of humor_? O'Conner brightened at the prospect. "I've got complete faith in you." O'Conner patted Shepard's shoulder, more gently than she might have otherwise. She did not want to interfere with whatever Shepard was doing. It looked complicated.

Shepard cued her omni-tool. "Put your serial number in," she awkwardly held up her wrist so O'Conner could obey.

A moment later, the locking mechanism in the door clicked as the signals within setting it to 'lock' were interrupted.

"You are the _best_. The _queen_ of geek-nerds." O'Conner vanished into the apartment.

"Does that mean I'm off the hook next time you want to hit the town?" Shepard had worked out that O'Conner liked dragging her around because O'Conner found her good company. Also, if O'Conner somehow got into trouble, she counted on Shepard not let her face it alone.

"You know there're _always_ plenty of single guys wherever we go! Or you _would_ if you bothered _looking_!"

It was worth a try…again, Shepard sighed.

Insanity. It was everywhere.


	12. Illusion

--Illusion--

--

"All right," Private Second Class Gina O'Conner sat down across from Private Second Class Shepard, beer in one hand, a scowl on her face.

"What?" Shepard did not look up from her omni-tool. She was, by now, used to O'Conner dragging her around. She now accepted that, when O'Conner picked her friends, they usually had little say in the matter. O'Conner's friends they became. Fortunately, Shepard found O'Conner easy to like. Energetic without being excitable—though certainly enthusiastic.

The simple fact that Shepard kept all this to herself, mostly, seemed to clinch O'Conner's current vein of thought.

"The time has come: what have you got against going out and having a good time?"

"Nothing," Shepard still did not look up from her puzzle.

"Come on, Shepard!" O'Conner tapped her beer bottle on the table, giving Shepard an assessing look. "We're sitting in one of _the_ nightlife hotspots, there's great food, great music, hot guys, and you look like a little raincloud playing with your geek-gear."

Shepard finally looked up, though not because of the 'geek-gear' comment. She was also used to O'Conner's weekly, sometimes daily, reminders that geeky behavior should not show too much in the modern marine.

Shepard usually retorted she would remember this, the next time O'Conner locked herself out of her apartment, which she had done twice now.

"What have you got against the nightlife?"

"Nothing," Shepard responded honestly.

O'Conner frowned, sipping her beer, but not looking away from Shepard. "You look like you're expecting trouble."

"I always expect trouble." This was certainly true. There were, after all, no really, truly _safe_ places in the galaxy. So experience indicated.

O'Conner scowled. "Does this have to do with Mindoir?"

Shepard shrugged, knowing it did. "It's got to do with illusions and a lack thereof on my part," she finally answered, popping her unbreached Astro-Fizz. "So—what about _your_ family?"

O'Conner shook her head. "Dunno. Don't care. But since they're dead, I figure _I_ might as well enjoy life." O'Conner took a long swig of her beer. Her first bottle, during the course of a very long evening.

Shepard simply could not find it in her to 'enjoy life' the way O'Conner did.

O'Conner took to scrutinizing the tabletop. "Did _anyone_ ever tell you all that wasn't your fault?"

"Repeatedly, so don't start." Shepard refused to have this conversation with a friend of only a few weeks in the middle of a club.

Anyone else might have left the topic well enough alone, but O'Conner was not known for giving up when people turned reticent. "Well, I guess if anyone's got a right to be disillusioned, it's you."

Shepard went back to her puzzle.

"At least you come along when I try to drag you around."

Shepard nodded. Yes, at least she'd come along—not that she felt she had much of a choice. Or did she?

"…so maybe there's still hope for you," O'Conner waved illustratively.

Shepard did not appreciate the sentiment, nor was she sure what O'Conner was trying to illustrate. "What's that supposed to mean?"

O'Conner leaned back in her chair, unperturbed by Shepard's tone. "Well, it's obvious you're not _completely_ disillusioned. So there's hope you might end up living a pretty normal life. Encouraging, don't you…"

"…and where did you get _your_ psychology degree?" The harsh words sprang from deep discomfort, and a desire to leave the party _right now_.

Again, O'Conner showed no sign of discomposure. "Come on, Shepard. Touchy subject, I get it, but it's really sad to see a marine lying to herself." Shepard pursed her lips, the epitome of prim Little Miss Manners. "Look, let's be methodical about this…"

"You're letting your beer talk." Shepard had heard what was 'wrong' with her often enough those first weeks after Mindoir. She had no desire to hear it again. Who would know better than _she_ what was wrong with herself?

The fact remained that she was disillusioned, and determined to carve out a niche against which she could put her back and face the galaxy.

O'Conner did not indicate having heard Shepard's interjection. "You're only _mostly_ disillusioned, Shepard. Otherwise, we wouldn't be sitting here, having this conversation."

"No illusions of safe places, no illusions of the inherent good nature of people, no illusions of..." Shepard reeled off, held by a sort of sick fascination, similar to what one might feel watching someone being operated on.

"Yeah, I'll give you that," O'Conner waved, her blonde hair flopping as she cocked her head. "But you've still got the one that makes a human, _human_." When Shepard's expression softened to confusion, O'Conner reached across the table and patted her shoulder. "You're still clinging to the _illusion_ that tomorrow might just be better than _today_."

Shepard let the words and implications sink in. O'Conner had a point, Shepard had to admit it. A valid point, based on such solid foundations that any argument now would only boil down to arguing semantics. Shepard was disinclined to argue tonight.

"So," O'Conner got to her feet. "Bring your disillusioned backside and let's go dance. You ever learn the Macarena?"  
"I've heard of it, but no one dances it anymore…" Shepard's expression changed to disgusted incredulity. "That dance died a slow, lingering, _painful_ death for a reason…we…humanity…we don't do _tribal dances_ anymore!"

"Bullshit." O'Conner pulled the grudging Shepard to her feet. "Come on, it's one little dance, it's not like anyone's asking you to take your shirt off and swing it around over your head!"

Shepard goggled at O'Conner. "You…"

"I know. I'm crass."

"We don't have the music…" Shepard protested as O'Conner succeeded in dragging her off to a corner of the dance floor.

"So what? This song'll work until I find a copy." O'Conner waved to the speakers.

Shepard sighed. If she labored under the illusion of a better tomorrow, O'Conner labored under the delusion that she could fix the galaxy.

Which was why Shepard did not stay in her chair, and sulk for the rest of the evening.


	13. Food

--Food--

--

They called it food.

Private Second Class Shepard had _heard_ them call it food.

But it was not. The mass on her plate did not resemble food in the least, except for the colors. It was akin to nothing recognizable, not even mystery-meatloaf. She abhorred meatloaf, but mystery-meatloaf was worse—and still just shy of this culinary travesty.

Mystery-meatloaf actually seemed preferable, as Shepard prodded the protein-enriched, meat-like square on her plate.

_That is not food. It's '_peat'_. Protein-ated meat. I'll bet that's even the technical term for it: _peat.

Nutritious and ever present it might be, but food it was not. It was certainly _edible_, despite appearances. The Alliance wouldn't starve or poison its soldiers. But they might consider the morale-lowering effects of meals like _this_.

"What's the matter?" Gina O'Conner settled across from Shepard, carrying a tray containing the same not-food that was on Shepard's tray. She had to wonder at these damn plastic trays. They reminded her Shepard so vividly of the ones schools used that she supposed the same company served both schools and the military.

How many days had she stared, not unlike she was doing now, at the school food, joking about the mashed potatoes doubling as industrial adhesives? Or hear about hamburger hockey games?

"Does _this_ look like _food_ to you?" Shepard pointed with her spork. Who, beside public schools, used _sporks_? It was a sad thing to find high school memories repeating themselves in an Alliance chow hall. Sad as it was, it was almost funny.

Almost.

O'Conner shook her head before setting in. "You'll get used to it. It's not _that_ bad. They always used the gross stuff _just _before you ship out. They probably figure too many rookies'll spit their socks up once we take off, so why not help the process? Nerves, or gravitational disorientation or some bullshit…"

Shepard watched as O'Conner spoke, shoveling down the not-food in between sentences. Yes, the explanation of rookies puking their guts up due to nerves or disorientation made sense. "It doesn't even _look_ like food." Shepard announced bleakly, glad to share this sentiment.

"It'll be better aboard ship. Don't think about what it look like, you'll just make yourself sick. Dig in."

Shepard's stomach curled into a ball, quivering,. Until O'Conner pointed this out, she had not made correlations between the not-meat and certain other brown, somewhat lumpy substances. "Guh…"

O'Conner sipped her drink, eyeing Shepard. The Mindoiran survivor looked green around the gills, which made the purple shadows under her eyes stand out even more. Perhaps, O'Conner considered, she ought to cut Shepard some slack. Not even six months after the batarians hit Mindoir, and here Shepard was, enlisted and ready to do what she had to.

Anyone with eyes could tell Shepard was driven. But even driven people could find themselves nauseated, just looking at this food. Certainly the type to go far. By now, short time though it really was, O'Conner felt she knew most of Shepard's habits. Shepard followed orders, she went down to the firing range every day, she got her work done well, done right…

…and made plans and preparations to get herself promoted.

"You looked at the ship yet?" O'Conner asked blandly.

Shepard's eyes rose from the not-food. It smelled better than it looked, but after O'Conner's last comment Shepard could not bring herself to load up her spork and chow down. However, her stomach began to rumble.

"Course. But I'm not going to stand around gawking at it like an FNG..."

"You _are_ an FNG." O'Conner pointed out.

Shepard crinkled her nose, a gesture she did not realize made her look much younger than she pretended to be. She was still seventeen, and still plagued by worries about anyone finding out. However, no one seemed worried about anything, now she was past basic, except that she do her job and do it competently.

Well, she'd do that. An unexpected wave of red-hot anger flare up, burning away all grief, worry and sadness. The surge of hatred centered around a dark shape with too many arms. Well, there were enough in the galaxy…and the Traverse was crawling with them.

It was why she had joined the Marines, instead of the Navy. Everyone heard about the Alliance Marines, and how they were the first into a fight, and the last out.

Shepard's face hardened into an almost ugly look, her skin taking on shades of blotchy red. "You okay, Shepard?" O'Conner asked, alarmed at the sudden, unexpected change.

"Fine." Shepard dug her spork furiously into the not-food, heedless of what it was or was not, shoveling it down. She could not, she thought as she chewed, do her job if she were paying attention to the rumbling of her stomach. If she couldn't do her job, she'd never become competent if she wasn't competent, she would not be permitted to advance, and she meant to advance.

O'Conner watched Shepard shoveling down her lunch as though she had not eaten for a year, but there was something almost dead behind Shepard's eyes, a stony wall behind which any number of things could happen unobserved. "You're gonna be a real maniac one of these days, Shepard." O'Conner could guess what random strains of thought would produce a reaction like _that_.

Shepard let her spork drop onto her empty tray. "Thanks O'Conner." She wanted to assure O'Conner they'd make waves as a team, but stopped herself. Life had taught her what happened to the best-laid of plans, and what happened when one blindly relied on the constant existence of another person. "You will too."

"How was lunch?" O'Conner jerked her chin at Shepard's tray.

Shepard's eyes fell to her empty tray. Had she really just wolfed all that crap down? Her stomach jittered again, finally having mentally mentioned what exactly the not-food most resembled. She used several unflattering words for her carelessness in giving it a name, which only made the jittery nausea worse. "It's still not real food."


	14. Drive

--Drive--

--

"Well, come on kids," Gunnery Chief Arbor waved Shepard and O'Conner towards him.

Shepard's stomach twisted, roiling as she eyed the behemoth beside Arbor. The hulking vehicle too strongly resembled a crouching, very blocky varren. Something that big probably handled like a tractor. Not a good thing.

"We're on a recon mission, out looking for rocks. Here's your ride, the M35-Mako. Toughest bitch in the navy." Whether he meant this as a compliment or not remained debatable.

Wasn't, both women wondered, a Mako a kind of _shark_? Who named this thing?

"In you get."

O'Conner went first, crawling into the gun turret, so the others would not have to scramble about. The fit in the Mako, O'conner complained silently, was always too tight. Arbor took the passenger side, directing Shepard to take the wheel.

O'Conner, having expected Arbor to control the first jump, exchanged a look with Shepard, and wished their places were reversed. Then again, better for Shepard to learn she could not _break_ the Mako without serious effort.

"Helmets go under the seat." Arbor stowed his own, a tap of his heel nudging it fully into place. "O'Conner, get comfortable with the gun."

"You think we'll need it, sir?" O'Conner asked, as though she half-hoped they _would_.

"Probably not, but I don't want to assume anything. We're out on the Verge, shit happens. Shepard, they're gonna drop us, you're going land, then drive us out. On the way back, you and O'Conner to switch places."

"Drop?" Shepard could not stop the word jumping out of her mouth. It might as well have danced half-naked on the dashboard, the way Arbor tried not to laugh. The difference between the Mako in training and the Mako in real life was extremely uncomfortable, for Shepard at least.

"You can't guarantee you're not going to need to get into a hot zone one of these days. You did it a million times before they stationed you, quit squirming." Arbor fastened his harness, pulling it secure. Neither of the women noticed him pull it tighter than he would have, had _he _been behind the wheel.

Shepard revved up the vehicle, released the docking clamps from the Mako's dashboard, and followed every single check on the checklist shouted into her ears so many times. She could almost hear it, echoing around in her head. The radio crackled their approach and vectors. Shepard backed up the Mako, positioning it in front of the bay doors. Her throat went dry, but O'Conner's kick to the back of her chair was reassuring.

"You strapped in nice and tight?" Arbor demanded, all business.

"Yes sir," O'Conner responded from the back.

"Aye-aye." The sight of the bay doors opening on the sandy, windswept world below nearly froze Shepard's nerves.

_They were really going to do this_!

Shepard's eyes bugged in her face as she struggled to brace herself within the small compartment, like a woman trying to prevent herself from being dragged over a cliff. Clamping her teeth together, she stared fixedly ahead.

"And…go~!"

She reacted without thinking, as though some part of her subconscious had flipped a switch, forcing all the protocols she learned so dispassionately to take over, making her some kind of automaton rather than a real person. She revved the engine and hit the accelerator, the radioman chattering away.

They shot out of the bay into the empty air, Shepard mechanically watching and tweaking the thrusters to keep them in proper form—the back of the vehicle being somewhat lower than the nose. The landed squarely, bouncing a little from the impact. Shepard pulled the vehicle to a stop as though moving down Main Street on some well-regulated world.

Her emotions caught up with her, and she promptly took a deep breath, swallowed hard, and let it out. She also had to admit, it was not as bad as she thought, once emotion went out of the picture. Burt she did not, at the end of the day, like doing it.

"See? Piece of cake." Arbor declared, peering back at the unperturbed O'Conner. "That's a textbook drop. Take us…north by north-east."

Driving the Mako did resemble driving a tractor, except the tractor probably maintained a smidge more maneuverability. Shepard went through a systems check first, such a thorough one that Arbor began to worry about her feasibility as a soldier. Maybe someone should put the bug in the captain's ear that she'd be better suited to a console…

"Come on, Shepard you can't break…shit!"

Shepard, finishing her checks, remorselessly stomped on the accelerator. The Mako roared like an angry tiger, charging forward with only a slight amount of fishtailing, spraying sand in all directions.

"Just like drivers' ed, Gunny!" O'Conner whooped when Arbor swore. "Everybody wants to be a hotshot! Didn't think you had it in your Shepard!"

"Shepard!" Arbor glanced over at Shepard, still staring fixedly out of the windshield.

She flinched as they hit an obstacle seemed too small to go around, though more to maintain her balance and visibility as the vehicle rattled.

Arbor shook his head: most everyone liked to gun the engine and spin out of park, he didn't blame her. The holdouts on tapping the engine's potential tended to be afraid to death of breaking something. Shepard was, thankfully, one who played it safe only until she was sure she _could_ be more aggressive behind the wheel. And once she was sure she could, she did.

"Just like driving a tractor." Shepard wrenched to the left, avoiding a large rock.

Arbor gave a low hiss, deciding he did not share Shepard's opinions of what constituted 'safe clearance'.

O'Conner was delighted. At last, Shepard had some inkling of _fun_. Just wait until they could take the thing out unsupervised. Survey missions would _never_ be dull again.

Shepard's tractor comment was not strictly true, she did not think it wise to tell Arbor the Mako handled like a pig. And not a warthog, either. Just a big, fat, ungainly, greased pig.


	15. Starvation

--Starvation--

--

The turian ghost ship's eerie silence was broken only by the occasional whisper of something moving around, something certainly not turian sized. Hunkered behind kinetic shields and heavy firearms, hating their position in the scheme of things, Gina O'Conner and Shepard crept forward, the lights on their assault rifles crossing and uncrossing like lights at a film premier.

Of course the least experienced couple soldiers got to go first.

Shepard's breathing sounded loud in her ears, and faster than usual. "Ksst—O'Conner?"

O'Conner twitched, startled. "What?"

"Anyone tell you what killed all these turians?"

O'Conner's soft groan answered the question. "No. But it'd better not be contagious."

The two fell silent as they worked their way back. Something flickered across Shepard's heads-up display "Heads up! Something's moving around in here!"

"_Everyone's gone, Shepard_," Gunnery Chief Arbor's voice came reassuring over the helmet radios.

"I'm telling you Gunny, there's something…" Shepard began.

"I saw it too!" Directing her rifle towards the ceiling as she turned into Shepard's path, O'Conner's eyes flicked back and forth. Jumpy or not, no one forgot rifle safety.

"_You're just jumpy, kids—but by all means, go lo_ok." Arbor waved, shaking his head.

Shepard gritted her teeth mutinously. He'd be jumpy too, if he was walking point, but _she_ wasn't worked up enough to imagine heat flickers across her HUD. "I _know_ I saw something," Shepard edged forward, just ahead of O'Conner.

"So'd I. I've got your back—let's go bag this thing, whatever it is."

Shepard nodded, wishing she could do something about the condensation forming on her visor, a combination of helmet doing what helmets did, and her own somewhat jittery nerves.

Strange, though, that the ship should be left adrift. You'd think whoever looted it and killed the crew—by now Shepard was sure their bodies were jetted out of the airlock—would have simply taken the ship as well. Even a civilian transport like this could go for serious credits. Every so often a dark patch on the ground evidenced a vanished someone's injury.

"_See anything_?" Arbor's voice crackled over the radio, making both women jump—though training held firm and neither made any move to simply start shooting.

O'Conner answered first, making a face at Shepard, who nodded in agreement. "Not yet, Gunny. But we're going slowly—cautious, you know."

Shepard looked around at the dim emergency lighting. Whatever was back here probably wouldn't come out hissing and spitting if they kept their voices down and tried not to startle it. It couldn't be very big, but then again, this did not mean much.

"_You let me know what you find, if anything._"

"Aye-aye." O'Conner turned to Shepard, seriously. "What do you think it is?"

"Dunno. It's something small." Shepard scanned back and forth, caught the motion again. She tapped O'Conner's arm and pointed.

O'Conner nodded, stepping ahead of Shepard for a turn at point. "Doesn't make this a great idea, though—it being small. With this thing adrift like it was, it'll be probably be starving_. _With lots of sharp teeth."

"I've got your back. And that's why we've got armor on." Shepard's response bordered on amusing, but did not quite make the bar.

"Armor's not necessarily teeth-proof."

O'Conner's logic—or lack thereof—notwithstanding made Shepard grin. "I chomped on someone when they rescued me on Mindoir, and they didn't need any weird shots."

O'Conner stopped moving in order to give Shepard a skeptical look, caught between somewhat disbelieving and surprise at Shepard mentioning anything about Mindoir. It was, after all, a topic she notoriously avoided. Shaking her head, O'Conner scanned the area again, continuing with the flicker of motion guiding them like an ominous beacon towards some unknown outcome.

The steady progression through the empty ship ended in the galley. Of the rooms Shepard and O'Conner had so far seen, it took the worst damage. Utensils lay scattered everywhere, as well as many blood stains. "Batarians. Or something that has dealings with them," Shepard's stomach squirmed as she pointed to the walls. "See the burns?"

"Imagine what that'd do to a _person_..." O'Conner's eyes followed the long, whiplike marks on the walls, black except where the inner supports of the bulkheads gleamed exposed.

"I don't need to imagine. And you're better off not," Shepard forced her eyes way from the burns, her ears pricked for any sound of the creature so far eluding them. "Close the door."

The doors hissed closed. Whatever this thing was, it had no room to run. Neither did they, and she didn't like it. Stories of the space-equivalents of giant squids, sirens, and sea monsters masquerading as seemingly innocuous things made O'Conner's palms sweat.

Shepard knelt before a cabinet, the only one with its door ajar.

"Careful Shepard…" O'Conner shouldered her weapon, hoping whatever Shepard found would be non-lethal.

Shepard peered into the cabinet, then gave a cry of surprise as she slammed the door closed. "O'Conner! Get me a tablecloth or something!"

O'Conner searched the room, then whipped a cloth off the small table in a corner, handing it to Shepard.

Propping her rifle against the cabinets, Shepard wrenched the cabinet open and dove in almost to her waist. After a lot of hissing and spitting, she emerged with something trapped in the confines of the cloth. Something with claws, as evidenced by attempts at shredding the cloth.

"It's a _cat_!" From a combination of lack of food, lack of water, and lack of strength, the feline could not keep up the onslaught for long.

"A _starving_ cat. Look." Shepard shrugged the tablecloth so O'Conner could see. The cat was on the point of starvation, bony and thin, its eyes too large for its face, its 'meow' of 'please let me go' feeble.

"Gunny?"

"_Yeah, O'Conner_?"

O'Conner winked at Shepard, who grinned mischievously, looking of to one side and up, as though she could see the _Midway_ circling lazily. "We found the thing. Can we keep it?"

A pause. "_What _exactly _did you find_?"


	16. Cat

--Cat--

--

"We'll call him Fitz," Gina O'Conner suggested cheerfully.

"I'm _not_ calling him _Fitz. _That's what they check on your armor before you're allowed to sign it out." Shepard shuddered at the suggestion. 'Fitz' indeed.

Dr. Patricia Greenwood rolled her eyes, as the two women at in the medbay while she—to her unending disbelief and disgust—was supposed to give a lone survivor a once over. The disbelief and disgust entered with the fact the survivor had four legs, a tail, very sharp teeth and claws...

…and beady eyes, eyes which stayed riveted on Shepard and O'Conner. Every so often the cat, barely out of kittenhood, gave a pleading or reproachful hail to them.

She was a _doctor_, not a veterinarian. Then again, to a marine they were probably different words for the same job, hence why the they came to her.

"That's _fits _Shepard, I said _Fitz_—as in _Fitzpatrick_." O'Conner's rejoinder cut through the air, interrupting Dr. Greenwood's thoughts.

Shepard's eyes widened, her lip curling in a picture of even greater dislike. "_Fitzpatrick_?" she nearly choked on the name. "The name's bigger than he is! Look at him, he's so cute, and scared to death…he's not a _Fitzpatrick_."

"But he _is _a poor little guy…" O'Conner instantly agreed, for a moment they dropped their argument to peer at the skinny ginger tabby. "I didn't know turians liked cats."

"Krogan like varren—so I've heard." Shepard mused aloud.

"Varren aren't cats."

"Yeah, and they're a lot tougher to kill."

"Please tell me," Dr. Greenwood interjected, "that this is not becoming a permanent resident on board this ship."

Silence descended. When Dr. Greenwood turned, she found the two privates sitting on an exam table, their hands in their laps, looking like pair of girls in Sunday choir. _I cannot tell a lie_ seemed to float above their heads, in golden script.

As Dr. Greenwood's eyes narrowed, the privates grins broadened. "Arbor did say he'd ask the captain if we could…" Shepard remarked innocently—an innocence Dr. Greenwood did not buy for a moment. "You know, for good luck and morale." This, at least, was the argument O'Conner and Shepard had cooked up to defend plans for a ship mascot.

"Look at him doc," O'Conner appealed. "He's skin and bones…"

"And claws and teeth…" Dr. Greenwood shook her head, looking at her heavily gloved hands. The cat was calm when O'Conner carried him in. The moment the doctor tried to touch him, it started hissing and spitting, ears flat and yowl grating on the ears.

"And all alone." Shepard interjected.

"And starving."

"Which is the problem—you're going to have to bottle feed this thing back to…" Dr. Greenwood stopped, both privates giving her a look, indicating they failed to see why bottle feeding the cat should be such a problem. "It's more merciful to put him down, no one's got that kind of time."

"We do—and Luzerie on the night shift said she can take care of him." Shepard protested.

"Okay, okay, don't hit me with the double glucose act, please. I've got enough problems with my teeth without you two contributing." Dr. Greenwood grumbled. It was embarrassing the levels of cavity inducing sweetener added to the milk of human kindness these two could generate when united in working towards a common goal.

"I knew it," O'Conner declared, snickering in the very back of the medbay a few minutes later, the cat cradled in one hand, a bottle—usually reserved for rescued infants—of synthesized milk in the other.

"Knew what?" Shepard asked, stroking the cat's head as he figured out the bottle held _food_, not poison.

"Dr. Greenwood's not a cat person. There you go," O'Conner cooed to the cat, "drink up, we'll get you back on your feet."

"You know, if this gets out, they can kick us out of the marines." When O'Conner made a face of non-comprehension, Shepard chuckled. " Lack of toughness in the presence of cute fuzzy things."

"They can _try_." The cat protested, for O'Conner gestured illustratively with her free hand—the hand holding the bottle of milk. "Just because we're kind to animals doesn't mean we can put a boot into someone's face."

For a moment, both looked incredibly serious, but the cat suddenly protested the removal of his lunch, evidencing it by hooking his claws into the material of O'Conner's trousers. She returned the bottle, and the cat settled again. "Here," O'Conner passed cat and bottle to Shepard, methodically brushing ginger fur from her clothes. "He's so cute."

"Well, I'm still not calling him _Fitz_." Shepard watched the cat hold the bottle between two paws. It wouldn't do to overfeed him, but if Dr. Greenwood hadn't warned them of the risks, the two marines would have let the cat eat himself to death.

The medbay doors hissed open, revealing Gunnery Chief Arbor, who looked around for a moment before making his way to the back of the medbay, where the tops of O'Conner's and Shepard's heads were just visible. "How's he doing?"

"He's _hungry_," Shepard declared.

The cat looked away from his feeding long enough to flex his claws, flatten his ears and give a threatening 'keep your hands off my food supply' _mrow_ of warning before tucking back in.

"Cute." Arbor shook his head.

"Can we keep him?" O'Conner asked.

Arbor's disapproval—which might have masked some amusement—remained firmly in place. "What are you two, ten? Act more like marines, would you?"

"Hey, just because we're sweet to the cat doesn't mean we can't chew up alien baddies for breakfast," O'Conner retorted, giving Arden her 'marine battle face'.

"Yeah—it takes a tough bitch to fight aliens, then come home and have love to spare for the cat." Shepard nodded.

Arbor snorted, but his gruff mouth looked as though it were working hard not to reveal his growing amusement. "What's his name?"

"_Fitzpatrick_."O'Conner answered before Shepard could say the cat did not yet have one.

"Well, welcome aboard…Fitz."


	17. Tears

--Tears--

--

Gunnery Chief Arbor worked so he could not see grim-looking Private Shepard and the carry box with Fitzpatrick in it. His attempt to preoccupy himself did not extend far enough to ignore how upset Shepard was. He tried not to look as she let Fitz bat at her finger through the grill of the carry box. Her face was set, but there was something in the same vein as heartbreak hanging around the edges.

Over a _cat_? Arbor shook his head, wondering how why Shepard could have become so attached to the critter. Arbor was not a cat person.

In the four weeks since his rescue, Fitz had wrapped most of the crew around his little paws, Shepard and O'Conner especially. However, within those four weeks contact was made with the turian military, and through those channels the next of kin of Fitz' former owner was discovered.

This was why Arbor found himself sitting in a bar with a girl who didn't look old enough to drink, a carry box with a cat, and the uncomfortable responsibility of separating one from the other. Surely the turian would want his brother's cat. Still…Arbor glanced over at Shepard, still watching Fitz with an expression bleak as snow.  
O'Conner took it more philosophically, but she also refused to be present, which spoke volumes. Usually she and Shepard were joined at the hip.

O'Conner's excuse was something about a massive request for elbow grease, given by the cook. Not her best excuse, but no one said anything about it, at the time or afterward.

Everyone knew if Fitz did not curl up to sleep at the warm base of whichever sleeper pod O'Conner was in, he was curled up against the base of Shepard's. And there he would stay, a ginger heap of fur which woke long enough to rub against their ankles when they woke up and share breakfast with them before finding somewhere within yowling distance of one or both to nap—so they knew when lunchtime was.

Believing the _Midway_ did not need a mascot, Arbor's opinion remained the same. However, no one could deny the cat was good for Shepard specifically, as well as morale_. _Ever since rescuing the cat, she seemed more relaxed when it came to perfectionist tendencies. People in the sleeper pods nearest hers noticed fewer nightmares, if she thought the cat lay curled up nearby.

True, no one ranted more at the cat than Shepard and O'Conner while training it to use the litter box. No one groaned more quietly about having to clean said litter box. No one stifled cursing more effectively when the cat—feeling adventurous—attacked ankles, or got underfoot. No one so easily got the cat to purr.

Behind her wall of composure, Shepard looked ready to cry. She was not anywhere near Arbor' definition of a crybaby, but the look in her eyes was nearly heartbreaking.

Perhaps the reason he'd never had kids.

"Chief Arbor?"

Shepard looked up to see a turian in a uniform. She rose with Arbor, her lips pursed in an attempt to discourage the stinging in her eyes from getting any worse. From inside his carry box, Fitz gave a yowl for attention.

"That's right." Arbor shook the proffered clawed hand, and when the turian turned vividly green eyes over to Shepard added, "This is Private Shepard, she was one of the ones who found the cat."

"Ah," the turian glanced at the box then sat down, at which point Arbor and Shepard followed suit. Shepard stopped letting Fitz bat at her finger as she listened to the turian and Arbor talking—mainly about the details of the ship, the missing crew, anything from the sound of it that the turian could bend towards finding the responsible party.

"Shepard, show him the cat."

Shepard obeyed automatically when prompted, turning Fitz's carry box so the turian could peer through the grate.

Fitz opened his mouth and hissed warningly, hunkering towards the back of the case.

The turian peered at the cat, then suddenly sneezed. "Bit scrappy, isn't it?"

Shepard shrugged as she braced herself to let go of the carry box, hands still rested tightly at the base, as if she could somehow stop the separation. Stupid, she thought grimly, getting so attached to a furball…but the bitter thought withered before it finished forming.

The turian sneezed again, his bright eyes vanishing and reappearing behind thick lids as he blinked rapidly. "Are you allergic to cats, sir?" Shepard could not keep the hopeful note out of her voice.

"So it would seem." The turian sniffled. "Cranky little furball isn't it?"

"Very. And he bites." Arbor, unable to stop Shepard's mouth, kicked her ankle under the table. Well, Shepard through glumly, Fitz _did_.

The turian spoke with Arbor or three or four minutes, sniffling and twitching with increasing obviousness. "Well, thank you, Gunnery Chief…you've been very helpful," the turian managed, getting to his feet.

Arbor looked from Shepard to the allergic-to-cats turian. "Shepard. Give him the cat."

"What? What would _I_ do with it? Look at this!" He waved frantically at his face. If he were human, the turian's eyes would have been streaming.

"So can we keep him?"

Arbor groaned: there it was. Pride of the marines sounding like a kid.

The turian looked surprised. "Who said _I_ wanted it?"

Shepard looked pointedly at Arbor.

"Standard procedure, you're next of kin." Arbor tried not to groan as Shepard's expression flickered between hopefulness and uncertainly as she drew the carry box closer to her.

"Are all humans so fond of cats?"

"You bottle feed something back from the edge of starvation and it grows on you." Shepard eyed the alien levelly.

"Take the cat." The turian rubbed one of his eyes. "_Please_."

Shepard's eyes stung, but the tears never showed. "Thanks," she said in a husky voice, shook the turian's hand, grabbed the carry case and bolted for the ladies bathroom, before any tears could form and spill free.


	18. Misfortune

--Misfortune--

--

Shepard, braced against the roof and door of the Mako, her teeth rattling as O'Conner sent the vehicle screaming along the roadless track of flatlands. The rapidly nearing mountains, rocky, jagged and young, thrust towards the vivid sky.

"You look tense Shepard." O'Conner glanced over at her somewhat neurotic friend.

"Tense? Me?" Shepard regretted speech, certain she would now end up with fractures in her teeth, the way they jangled together as the Mako roared over the uneven ground. Just because it was flat did not make it smooth. "Not a chance…"

"You look worried."

"I'm not worried," Shepard betrayed herself by flinching obviously as O'Conner veered around a rocky outcrop.

"Sure you are. And you know what? You should be! It's quiet as a coffin in here. Hang on…" O'Conner, to Shepard's horror, took one hand off the wheel and fished around in her web gear. "Aha! Here it is!" She held up an OSD in a case. "How many credits were pumped into this thing? It'd better have an OSD deck. Find it, would you?" She shoved the OSD at Shepard, who took it quickly, eager to have a driver with both hands on the wheel.

"Yeah…just keep your eyes on the road and _both hands on the wheel_!" Shepard roared over the noise of the vehicle on the terrain.

"Whoo!" O'Conner whooped, the Mako hitting an uneven patch. The vehicle jostled violently this way and that. "I _love_ these survey missions!"

Shepard shuddered, continuing her search for the OSD deck. Surely, it was wishful thinking which convinced O'Conner this hunk of junk had an OSD deck. More O'Conner did not 'love' survey missions. She loved driving like a maniac.

Shepard hated the Mako, and its claustrophobic interior.

…except when O'Conner was driving. Then the tight quarters became a blessing: she could only rattle so far, once O'Conner got going.

"There it is—I thought you were the tech guru." O'Conner tapped a slot on the dashboard.

"_Both hands on the wheel dammit_!" Shepard roared as the Mako lurched again.

"Aw," O'Conner teased, as Shepard pried the OSD case open, "am I fraying your techie-guru geek-nerd nerves?"

Shepard gave O'Conner a glower, made all the more effective by the vivid color of her eyes. "_I'll_ drive us to the extraction point."

Inwardly O'Conner knew she should not have baited Shepard like that. It was rule of thumb that any passenger in the Mako hated riding passenger. Normally Shepard would have sat up in the turret, but this was a routine survey mission, and the world was not hospitable to _anything, _not even thresher maws.

"If we live that long…_watch it_!" Shepard nearly stabbing herself with the OSD on her hand.

"Woops! Don't distract the driver, Shepard!" O'Conner cheered, as she dodged another obstacle. That was one way to get Sheppard do spare her the lecture. Shepard didn't lecture often, but she hated reckless drivers—not to be confused with aggressive drivers.

O'Conner didn't see the difference, and sometimes wondered why Shepard was in the marines at all. Reckless driving was practically a prerequisite.

Well, she would not dominate the steering wheel. They could take turns driving while the other panicked. It was all good fun…but Shepard drove like a little old lady.

Shepard flinched again as sound blasted out of the speakers.

"And I thought I liked it loud!" O'Conner shouted over the music, her ears ringing. "Find a way to fix the noise!"

Snorting, Shepard found and turned down the volume—a vehicle like this had a very basic sound system that simply gave louder volume than the norm.

Otherwise people would want not be able to hear—in this case, hear _Punishment_ by Cruel and Unusual—over the vehicle crossing terrain. Contrary to the title, the song was more about going through the wringer in pursuit of a dream than anything else, making it very easy to commiserate with.

O'Conner did not take long to give half her attention to belting out the chorus—in between attempts to get the half-smiling Shepard to do the same. She couldn't drive like a complete maniac and sing at the same time, so the driving became more tolerable, and Shepard lightened up.

It was not a bad tradeoff.

"Hey…we've got a hit…just up there…" O'Conner pointed out the windshield, stopping the vehicle.

"I dunno, we ought to go around the other way..." Shepard peered at the rocky formations.

O'Conner gunned the engine, amid Shepard's worries about gradients, grades, and warnings labels.

"Come on, Shepard! Warning labels are written with safety protocols in mind! You ever take nine tablets of acetaminophen every day for half a week or so? Shouldn't do it, but if the doc says it's okay…"

"This is _physics_ though!"

"Yeah, and you admitted you weren't a physics guru! Don't distract the driver."

The Mako roared as O'Conner took it towards then up the rocky formations, at an angle as training indicated they must—or risk losing not only traction, but momentum. It was not until she was halfway up that the Mako slowed, then stopped.

For a heart-pounding moment O'Conner and Shepard looked at each other, as the Mako slipped slowly backward, despite O'Conner's use of the breaks. "Uh…sorry Shepard…"

Shepard looked out the window, turning off the music blaring from the stereo. "I hate you."

"I-I can get us down…" O'Conner turned the wheel to an extreme, and gave the Mako fuel. For a moment it looked as though O'Conner would salvage the situation. Then the Mako shivered as something slipped under the wheels. The next thing the marines knew, they were rolling down the rock formation, bouncing violently along the way.

Shepard climbed out of the Mako, once it stopped, then helped O'Conner climb out. No sooner were they both on the rocky ground, sprinkled liberally with sand, did the Mako groan. It teetered, tottered, and rolled onto its back. "Looks like a dead cockroach…" O'Conner giggled nervously.

"O'Conner…Arbor is going to _kill_ you."


	19. Dark

--Dark--

--

The _SSV Midway_ could not come and collect the stranded Shepard and O'Conner as quickly as those two marines would have liked. A dust storm blew up while Arbor took the first opportunity to shout at O'Conner that _real marines did not crash the equipment just because they could_. Then he yelled at Shepard for _not putting the kibosh_ _on O'Conner's hot-dogging_. By the time he finished shouting, there was nothing left to do, but for the marines to hunker down for the night, weather the storm, and be _rescued_—another of Arbor's favorite words this rant—first thing the next morning.

Shepard privately though the storm had little to do with the wait. It was Arbor teaching them a lesson—and he was within his rights to do so.

"Lucky for you," Shepard grunted to an unusually apologetic O'Conner, as she fished the survival gear from the still upside-down Mako, "I used to do a lot of camping." Geek-nerds loved camping too. More accurately, geek-nerds loved laptops and burnt marshmallows.

"Kh, at least one of us did."

"You never went?" Shepard kicked a pack out of the vehicle, still rummaging around under the seats.

"You don't go camping downtown, you know." O'Conner sighed.

Reminded where O'Conner grew up, Shepard kicked herself. "No, I suppose not."

"I'll bet Mindoir had some great camping spots, though." O'Conner knelt to peer after Shepard into the Mako's dark depths.

"It did…" Shepard, not seeing O'Conner, kicked another small case out, nearly killing her teammate with it.

"Well, I'll defer to your expertise," O'Conner shuffled back on the sandy terrain as Shepard pushed a bag out of the vehicle before crawling out herself.

"Well, this is what we need. I say just pitch the tent on the lee side of the Mako…but if the winds shift I won't matter _where_ we put it. You know Arbor is laughing at us."

"Yeah, now he's all shouted out. My ears are still ringing."

Neither woman looked forward to spending the night here. The terrain meant using the hardshell tent, and not venturing outside once it was sealed—unless they wanted to sleep in their helmets.

"Double check the Mako, make sure I didn't leave anything," Shepard directed as she unfolded the tent. It looked like a traditional tent, with a layer of insulation on the inside. The insulation hardened when the tent sealed itself, creating a habitat with breathable-by-humans air.

The problem was, you had to climb in first, and _then_ inflate it, otherwise one got sealed _out_. Shepard took this stoically. It was a clumsy arrangement, but better than sleeping on the sand, unprotected from the atmosphere, the dust storms, and the dark.

Uninhabited and inhospitable or not, dark and silence played tricks on everyone. Shepard vastly preferred the security of the hardshell than the exposed 'freedom' afforded when roughing it. Geek-nerds also liked going back to the house once marshmallows were gone, and laptop batteries depleted.

"All right, we're ready," O'Conner reported.

"Get in."

O'Conner sighed, then climbed into the deflated tent, crawled along. Her bulk moved along like a mole underground.

"You're at the middle!" Shepard called, before following, sealing the entryway closed with a thin seam of omnigel.

"We ready?" O'Conner asked. The inside of the tent was pitch-black due to the thick material and lack of windows.

"Yeah." Shepard produced her flashlight before making her way over to the small atmospheric converter. O'Conner gradually lowered her arms as the small machine first inflated the inside of the tent—all exhaust pouring through the one-way seal into the great outdoors. Once the pressure gauge turned green, the atmospheric conversion began. Shepard could not explain how it worked, only that once this light went green, she and O'Conner could,a nd did, pull their helmets off.

"It's dark." O'Conner produced her own flashlight. "That's what the geniuses should have included: lights."

"It'll be darker by night."

"How? We have no windows." O'Conner motioned, as Shepard set up the chemical lamps. Obviously Shepard paid attention to what standard-issue gear went in which box during basic. O'Conner would have had to rummage for whatever she wanted. Yet another reason why, it O'Conner had to pick one teammate to be stranded with, it would be Shepard.

This was, of course, one of the questions bandied about the mess shipside as a mission wore on.

"It's psychological." Shepard bit her lip. She was not looking forward to the long night ahead. Stranded, exposed, and in an unfamiliar place, her nerves tingled uncomfortably. "You hurt?" A little late to be asking, btu better late than never.

"Just bruises on my arm," O'Conner shrugged. "You?"

"Aches and pains. Obviously I can function," Shepard smiled dryly. The light of the green chemical lamps gave the place a ghostly appearance. "You know, I'm not so sure about this 'storm' Arbor wound up complaining about. You think he just wanted to drive home a point?"

O'Conner grunted in disgust, though in a 'we—okay, _I_—deserve it' sort of way.

Outside, something soft and sinister began to slither against the hardshell. O'Conner looked up nervously.

"Sounds like sand." Shepard had never heard sand sound so sinister. She hoped the protective coating on the outside of the tent would stand up to the elements. You never knew for sure about weather on these uncharted worlds. The computers could narrow down the likely possibilities…but sometimes weird things happened. "Come on, there's stuff to set up. It's not a great place, but it's only for one night."

The two marines worked in silence, but the small cabin of the Mako meant only so much gear could be stored. It did not take them long to finish putting everything away. It was not psychologically reassuring, for the wind began kicking up.

"I hate camping." O'Conner finally announced. "I should have brought my cards."

Shepard grinned wryly. "I wish you had too."

"You're not telling me you're _enjoying_ this?"

Shepard wouldn't admit hating the dark.


	20. Night

--Night--

--

The scene revealed a crashed land rover, still on its back, resembling a dead cockroach. Near the rear of the vehicle stood a hardshell emergency tent, half-buried in sand. Its small atmospheric converter softly hummed as it kept the air within the tent clean and breathable.

The chemical lamps inside the tent burned low, invisible from the outside, but casting a faint greenish light over the two marines within. Both lay on the floor of the tent, heads propped uncomfortably on their web gear, helmets in easy reach. The stillness of night filled the tent as it filled the great outdoors, but for all the silent stillness, neither marine slept.

Soft scuffling sounds, innocent enough when viewed from the outside, became sinister within the windowless tent, with its omnigel-sealed door.

O'Conner shifted onto her side, her back to Shepard. It was not her nature to waste time feeling guilty, but in this case, she felt _extremely _guilty, for having landed them in this predicament. Glancing back at Shepard—who also lay facing a wall—O'Conner shifted again. Shepard put on a tough front, but O'Conner was confident she knew what nightmarish visions danced before her friend's eyes, brought on by the silence, the isolation, and the darkness.

But it would get a whole lot darker, a whole lot faster if they weren't careful with the lamps.

O'Conner made yet another silent, ultimately pointless-promise to herself to _listen_ when Shepard tried to talk about physics, gravity and the like. She knew if she listened to Shepard on all occasions, life would be both safe and relatively boring.

But she couldn't fault Shepard for this. Gravity worked, case and point.

Shepard lay curled up as best she could without inviting overly stiff muscles the next morning. The silence in the tent resembled the night outside, hanging thick and impenetrable, lending the burden of worry to a human mind. Echoes of noises past rattled between her ears, resonating in the space not occupied by her brain.

She did not want to show O'Conner—best friend or not—what this night-long camping trip was doing to her. It was almost shameful in a marine, to be scared of the dark. Dark ins pace was one thing, but dark planetside while painfully exposed was another. Shepard had good reasons for her fears, but to avoid anyone commenting on it, she kept silent.

Which only made the impression of silence worse, as the ringing echoes in her mind increased in volume. She did not blame O'Conner for getting them stuck here. Her original disgust for fun-seeking gone wrong burned out hours ago.

She would have to put her foot down more firmly the next time they went on a survey. Of course, getting O'Conner to play things safe was like teaching a cat to use a toilet instead of a litter box. Difficult, but not impossible.

"You sleeping, Shepard?" O'Conner could not take the silence anymore.

Shepard also gave up the pretense of sleeping. "No."

"Well, I hope you're not in the mood for ghost stories."

Shepard gave a wry laugh as she sat up, facing O'Conner, who looked little more than a shadow, outline in luminous green from the lamps. "Not tonight."

"Good. 'Cause it sucks down here. I'm never flipping the Mako again."

That was an O'Conner-brand apology, a promise to mend her reckless driving. Or at least, listen a little better in future. The resolution probably would not last, but O'Conner was undoubtedly genuine in the hope this attempt would last longer than others.

Shepard appreciated the thought. Though, if O'Conner could change her tune so easily, she wouldn't be O'Conner. "Sounds like a plan."

It was something O'Conner liked about Shepard. Shepard rarely rubbed things in. And she could spot an apology fairly well, too. There were fewer communications snarl ups when Shepard was part of a conversation. "So, what do you do when you go camping?"

"I used to play on my omni-tool," Shepard sighed. "Geek to the core, remember? Not much I can do with it now, though."

O'Conner frowned. "What'd your _family_ do while camping?" She should have known Shepard would invoke her pet omni-tool. O'Conner now suspected Shepard of going home, once the marshmallows ran out, which was indeed the truth.

Shepard thought back, groping through the dark recess of memory. "Sing. Tell ghost stories…"

"…those are out," both she and O'Conner announced at the same time, before grinning at each other. Ghost stories before a warm campfire were one thing, here they would only fray the nerves.

"…burn hotdogs. You're not hungry, are you?" Shepard asked.

"Not really. I wish we had some marshmallows, though."

"Then we'd need a _fire_, and that'd throw the converter off." Shepard nodded to the atmospheric converter. When using the hardshell, it was cold rations or smokeless heat only.

"Hmm….you're a wonderful detail person." O'Conner knew Shepard was right, but she did not have to like it. Shepard had a habit of being right…which came in handy, all things considered.

"Marine camping isn't like civilian camping."

"Yeah," O'Conner shifted her web gear, wondering if she would be more comfortable without it, "we have no pillows."

"But we _do _have better guns." Shepard patted her rifle, earning a snicker.

The silence that settled again was less troubling. Then something broke the silence.

"Did you…" O'Conner jumped.

"...hear that?" Shepard finished, reaching for her weapon. "Sounds like engines…"

"Can't be ours…they said not to expect them till morning. Or till the storm blew over and the..."

"Ksst." Shepard cut O'Conner's rambling. Both women strained their ears, weapons ready as the low rumble of engines persisted.

Shepard stifled a scream when someone pounded on the outside of the shell. "Open up! Shepard! O'Conner!" The voice unmistakably belonged to Gunnery Chief Arbor.

Finally breeching the tent, Shepard squinted in the lights. A helmeted Arbor stood, silhouetted by the bright lights of the _SSV Midway_.

The storm, and the night, were over. Light glittered on the horizon.


	21. No Time

--No Time--

--

O'Conner knew it was over. The sounds of gunfire overhead, raucous batarian voices, the screams of trapped slaves, all mingled in her ears_._ Worse, she couldn't see Shepard. If _she_ was having trouble, pinned with Bryce and Edinburg…

Getting pinned by batarians was not going to do any wonders for Shepard…

On the other side of the room, crouching behind a crate, Shepard coolly reloaded her weapon. The first major piece of action, and it brought her face to face with _the _enemy. It didn't matter if this particular group ever set foot on Mindoir or not. They had four eyes, distinctive leers, nasty weapons and promoted slavery. That was all that mattered—that and having enough ammo for all of them.

Thoughts of vendetta versus duty never crossed her mind. They were the same. Alone as she was, no one could see something in Shepard disconnecting. As if part of her soul switched off, in light of the present situation. She was afraid, but she was angry, too. So angry she felt _cold_, so cold everything seemed clear.

She had no time.

No. _She_ could wait them out, she had reinforcements. O'Conner and the others were here somewhere.

The slaves penned up, crated up, boxed up like cattle did not have the luxury of time. The batarians would kill every one of them, if it looked as though the Alliance had the upper hand.

Batarians were cowards. Crafty cowards, not to be underestimated…but they had no fortitude.

Shepard took a slow breath, leaning out from behind her safe haven. _Bang. Bang_. Two shots raced across the room, catching a cluster of batarians in their flank. Two went down, injured. Swearing silently, Shepard threw herself flat, scuttling forward on her belly to a new position, counting on the answering bangs of assault rifles from the others.

O'Conner knew the single weapon off on its own had to be Shepard's. If Shepard wasn't freaking out, she, O'Conner, certainly had no right to. O'Conner popped up, unloaded several rounds—picking off one of the batarians Shepard winged—before ducking down again.

Shepard exhaled and reloaded, her heart beating strong in her chest. Each beat seemed to say, _no time_.

Motion caught Shepard's eye. _Boom-boom_! The double tap caught the batarian on the balcony overlooking the warehouse like bunker. Catching both rounds full in the chest, the batarian slouched, flipped over the railing, and landed with a crunch. Two other batarians hit the poured-concrete floor, caught off-guard by Shepard as they watched the falling slaver's progress.

Suddenly, that distressed part of Shepard was less distressed: she could move around, whereas the others, apparently could not.

And all three kills were those closest to the slave pens. The slaves were her priority.

Assault rifles began firing with renewed vigor, allowing Shepard to continue her stealthy maneuvers, picking off one or two here and there as she worked single-mindedly towards the prisoners, all of whom were still screaming, taking what cover their positions allowed.

The batarians were falling into disarray, as Shepard finally got close enough to the crates to pepper those remaining without shooting the civilians as well. The batarians found themselves broadsided by Bryce and O'Conner, driven towards them by Shepard, the four of them driving the batarians away from the slaves, away from any chance of escape. The crates of other supplies and cargo gave the marines all the cover they needed.

Behind the line of fire, Edinburg and Garza made for the crates, disabling cheap locking mechanisms, then herding the terrified onlookers towards the back of the bunker.

Shepard could only surmise, as she drilled another batarian, that someone had come up with a plan during those few very tense moments.

O'Conner knew something was wrong.

Shepard had never given the impression of having a reckless bone in her body. Now, however, she refused to stop, to slow down. Hers was a constant push towards the rapidly backing into a corner batarians, mindlessly pushing the aliens towards her fellow humans. Systematically Shepard moved forward, paused behind a crate to fire on the enemy before continuing on. The more cornered the batarians got, the less they thought about when to shoot, reacting with desperation instead of acting with a clear head.

The more cornered the batarians got, the better Shepard's shooting got.

Shepard darted to the next point of safety. She could not see Bryce and O'Conner, nor did she see the worried looks she received from the later. She noticed nothing but the enemy, and her proximity to them.

Now, after who knew how many raids, how many scattered ashes of lives destroyed, the drifting, curling tatters of families ripped asunder, now _they had no time_. Now they knew what it was like to cower and cringe, and feel the inevitable slip towards them unseen in the darkness.

How did they like a taste of their own medicine? Too bad they wouldn't live long enough to learn from it…

"Shepard!" O'Conner sprinted to join Shepard, giving the batarians a single moment of clear shooting.

Shepard reacted, stepping free of her hiding place, unloading rounds into the retreating batarians, giving them something to shoot at apart from her fellow marine. O'Conner dropped to the ground, and opened up, praying for her aim.

For a few moments the air was full of gunfire. As if someone pressed a mute button on the scene, the noise stopped.

Shepard pulled O'Conner to her feet before stalking over to the batarians, weapon at the ready.

"What happened to you?" O'Conner snapped, catching the ice behind Shepard's eyes.

Shepard blinked, and the ice was gone. "There wasn't any time. Why are you upset? Your plan worked: They're dead, they're free." She motioned to the batarians and the slaves as appropriate.

O'Conner's face went chalky. "Plan? My _plan_ was to keep you from getting your face blown off!"

"Oh. Well…don't tell the people in charge _that_."

O'Conner could have smacked Shepard upside the helmet.

With her rifle butt.


	22. Relaxation

--Relaxation--

--

"It's real food!"

Gina O'Conner nearly spat hers out as she choked on a laugh, Shepard grinning wickedly at her from across the table. "You suck," O'Conner blinked rapidly as she grabbed a napkin, to cover her mouth.

True to what O'Conner told her at the time, the proper food aboard the _SSV Midway_ appeared in time for supper. Still prepackaged, still heavily processed, but better than the processed meat. 'Peat' actually turned out to be the accepted term for shipboard mystery meat, leaving Shepard feeling aggrieved she was not the first to come up with it.

On the _Midway_, as with so many ships, bad food jokes and commentary persisted.

She couldn't look at the sausage gravy anymore, without remembering overheard commentary from the next table over, one morning.

Yo ho, yo ho, no pirates life for me, she affirmed silently.

Regardless, the food here in Port Faithful was really _real_. In addition to the fantastic food Shepard found herself increasingly aware of the difference in gravity between Faithful and the _Midway_.

"You're gawking Shepard—pull it together." O'Conner prodded Shepard's elbow, which rested on the table, supporting her chin as she watched people strolling past.

"Right."

O'Conner rolled her eyes before joining Shepard's people-watching. "Hey, he's really hot, Shepard."

"Is that a hanar?" Shepard spotted the little jelly-bean shape at the end of the street, totally ignoring O'Conner's comment, except to glance around for the non-existent male with which her friend sought to distract her. With the world developing, a steady trickle of aliens accompanied expanding colonization, for one reason or another.

"How many other intergalactic jellyfish are there?" but the comment came without scorn.

The hanar drifted down the street, its pink almost luminous body iridescent with faint hints of blue and lavender.

Shepard scowled at her soup as the asari sitting two tables over burst into giggles. They looked like blue humans, so it annoyed and confused Shepard how so many aliens liked to think of humanity as second class. Of course, from what she understood, all the Council races tended to think of non-Council races as second class. Elitist creeps.

Still…

She could never squeeze into what those asari were wearing, not if she wanted to look good. Only having ever seen female asari, she supposed the males stayed planetbound, like salarian females. _And I'll bet they're hot, too_, she thought idly*.

"Kst." O'Conner kicked Shepard's ankle under the table, nodding her head discreetly.

Shepard's eyes followed the motion to see two extremely ragtag, tough-looking aliens striding down the street like rainclouds: a turian, and a battered-looking krogan. "They're not so tough," she grunted, more to disguise her profound gratitude she was not in the sort of place where one picked a fight.

"Course not." Though the way O'Conner kept glancing out the corner of her eyes indicated she felt just as unnerved. "Not like back home," she clicked her tongue.

Shepard nodded, knowing a little about O'Conner's drifter background. Trying to imagine hanar, krogan or even the asari, who looked so human, on Mindoir was like imagining dragons and unicorns dancing old terran ballet in the middle of Gagarin Station, or having the Grim Reaper piloting the _Midway_. "No, not like back home…what _is_ this stuff? It's great!" She had not recognized the name of the soup, but then again, she could not always tell one regional food from another region's without looking at an ingredient list. Sometimes not even then.

"I know what they _called_ it—but it's not human."

"Well, if _humans _are a step above cannibalism, and eating our own young, it can't be anything too horrible." Shepard said this very quietly indeed, so no one would overhear and take offense. She did not intend the remark to be offensive, but truth was truth.

O'Conner snorted her soup again. "You trying kill me, Shepard?" she demanded, glaring through watery eyes.

"Is everything all right?"

Both marines looked up to find an asari waitress, looking inquiringly at them. "Fine," O'Conner answered throatily.

"Great." Shepard beamed so innocuously the asari blinked, her eyes moving from Shepard's smile to the uniform she wore and back. "Can I get more of this? It's really good."

"Or maybe we should just skip to dessert," O'Conner noted, eyeing the datapad menu previously neglected upon the table. "Look at this, Shepard."

"May I get you a drink, while you're thinking?" The waitress' tone indicated she did not like finding her presence all but ignored.

"Ye…no," O'Conner grinned. "Just another soft drink."

"You have anything with fizz or umbrellas?" Shepard asked.

"Grow up, Shepard…" O'Conner gave Shepard a teasing kick under the table.

"I…suppose…" The asari gave Shepard a look, which conveyed doubt about the woman's sanity, though her next comment indicated she recognized a space rookie when she saw one. Not that Shepard was making an effort to hide this face. "Probably nothing from Earth, though…"

"That's okay." Shepard waved. "I'm feeling adventurous…"

The asari would have raised her eyebrows if she had them, but a faint smile began to play around her blue mouth. "I'll tell Ryla."

The asari returned five minutes later with a large cup. "No umbrellas, I'm afraid," she declared, setting the cup down before Shepard, whose eyes grew wide at the multicolored concoction, with a skewer of what looked like rock candy on a stick, poking out of it like an afterthought.

O'Conner frowned at the asari, who continued to watch Shepard, with the air of someone expecting the human to spit the drink back out, choking and retching. Well, Shepard _had _asked for a fizzy drink, and from the asari's grin it was obvious the other woman understood the concept.

Shepard took a long slurp of her semi-icy drink, then sat there for a moment with a critical expression across her face. "Delicious! Hey, O'Conner, you've gotta try this!" Shepard pulled out the rock candy, setting it aside, plainly uninterested.

O'Conner refused, as the asari's eyes, for lack of a better word, bugged.

*Please remember Shepard is a green recruit, and a backwater world farmer. Just laugh at her lack of information. ^_^


	23. Memory

Shepard dropped her bags as she entered her apartment in the housing block. With the _SSV Midway _in for its yearly checkup, the crew was on leave until further notice. Here, in home port, there were places with real food, hot showers where water conservation was not or paramount importance, and…

Shepard knelt and pulled a small pistol case from beneath her bed, leaving it out as she pulled her uniform off, heading straight for the shower. It was not enough for the date of the anniversary of Mindoir to be stuck in mind. For the entire week leading up to that auspicious date, it was all the media wanted to talk about, though fortunately they had not talked to her.

Hard to get a hold of a survivor for an interview when said survivor worked on a spaceship and lived on a military base.

She supposed, in an unbiased corner of her mind, it was a big deal to more people than just the survivors. Still, she did not like seeing reminders of it plastered everywhere, waiting to catch her off guard. It was bad enough coping with a gaping, bleeding wound no one could see, which each movement tore open wider.

Now, however, was only a cold emptiness, which left her feeling like a hollow chocolate rabbit.

Hot water scalded her skin, casing sweat to slip down her face, despite the fact she was trying to get clean. Tears, however, did not come, not even as echoes of her childhood rang in her ears like gunshots.

Shepard's shower was interrupted by her phone ringing back in the main room of the apartment. The first time she ignored it.

The second time told her it was O'Connor, deciding leave on _terra firma_ (not the political movement) meant it was time to go looking for fun or adventure. Or both—usually both, and even Shepard could not deny O'Connor usually found both.

The third phone ring snapped Shepard's patience for ignoring the phone. Groaning she turned off the water, wrapped up in a towel and stumbled out, grabbing up the device and—holding it gingerly since she was still dripping wet—answered. "What?"

"Charming, Shepard. What're you doing?"

"Dripping all over the floor." Shepard propped the phone between her damp shoulder and her ear, beginning to towel off as best she could.

"Oh, good! That means you're already cleaned up. Do I have great timing or what?"

Shepard rolled her eyes, switching the phone to her other ear. "What's this about, O'Conner? I'm tired."

"No, you're anti-social. But we're going to fix that up right away."

Shepard sighed again, this time audibly. "O'Conner…"

"Look, eighteen hundred, you and me are hitting the town. You're not moping and going moldy in that shoebox apartment…"

"You live in one too," Shepard pointed out, flopping to sit on her bed.

"...when there's so much to do! There's a new aliens-welcome bar open on Agamemnon and Mao." O'Conner finished as though Shepard had not interrupted. "You've gotta wear something cute. Asari present mean at least a couple of hot guys getting shot down."

"I don't have anything cute," Shepard feebly tried to argue her way out of whatever O'Conner had planned. O'Conner liked to party, liked noise and flirting, and attention. But Shepard also knew O'Conner liked the party to _stop _when O'Conner walked out of the venue.

As she had once told Shepard, in a bout of serious confidence: _I'm not adopting a puppy, nothing's following me home. _

Apparently O'Conner's upbringing was more straight-laced than Shepard's, which accounted for her effervescence and love of fun. Shepard also had to admit that fun usually _was_ fun, and not sleazy, drunken, or brawl-inciting.

"Then wear something that's _not_ standard issue. You're so hopeless," O'Conner teased.

Shepard started to grin wryly, despite herself. "That's true."

"What? You've got something else you want to do?" O'Conner finally turned down her enthusiasm, but her tone made Shepard think O'Conner knew how she was feeling—which made her insistence Shepard go out on the town with her a little unfeeling.

"No. I just planned to spend the night at home…you know. It's…well, you know."

Silence hung on the other end, such along silence that Shepard could easily imagine the eyes-closed wince of deep-felt sympathy on O'Conner's face. "I know Shepard," O'Conner finally sighed, her tone much more sober. "That's why I don't want you just sitting in the dark at home, all by yourself."

"Thanks," Shepard managed around the unexpected lump in her throat.

"No problem." Another pause. "So, will I see you at six?" It sounded as though O'Conner might actually ask with the word 'please' next.

"Yeah, sure." Shepard hunched forward, leaning an elbow on her knees. "I'll be ready."

"Great."

"Might not be good company, though." Shepard found herself still half-hoping O'Conner would let her off, but fully aware once O'Conner heard her favorite word 'yes' she would no longer trouble herself about enthusiasm. Her brand of enthusiasm tended to be contagious anyway.

"No problem – I'll just put you at a table and tell the bartender to keep some cute waiter bringing you those weird fizzy drinks you like so much. You can watch me have all the fun, but I don't think it'll come to that."

Shepard's snort was almost a laugh.

"Hey!" O'Conner's voice came across the line restored to full volume and energy. "We're getting there! See you tonight, Shepard!" There was an audible maniacal giggle before O'Conner ended the call.

Shepard snorted again, shaking her head, and checking the clock. Plenty of time to get herself pulled together, probably to take a nap if she wanted. Glancing at the pistol case, which did not hold a pistol at all, Shepard picked it up, and slid it back under her bed. It was not as though she did not carry the memories of her lost loved ones, not as though she did not expect to see them again when she finally passed on.


	24. Drink

--Drink--

--

Shepard settled in comfortably, watching the bar's crowd milling around, looking incredibly sedate beside Gina O'Conner, who had neon, curly ribbons fastened into her short fair hair.

How it had rankled the traditionalists, once humanity's perception of the galaxy around them changed so drastically, when the idea 'if you were old enough to die for your planet, you were old enough to buy a beer', came into fashion. This made even Private Second Classes welcome in a place like _Daze End_.

Music pounded in Shepard's sinuses as she scanned the crowded bar. It conspicuously lacked signs of fellow Alliance servicemen. No one looking at O'Conner and Shepard would peg them as soldiers, not with O'Conner's psychedelic ribbons and Shepard's more reserved jeans and sparkly shirt.

It was not _her_ shirt, which explained why her midriff showed every time she moved. Upon arriving at six, O'Conner took one look at Shepard's clothes, and clicked her tongue, indicating she expected Shepard to have no sense of fashion. Then O'Conner had handed over said sparkly shirt. After a short but furious argument, Shepard obliged her friend's whim.

"Oh, quit sulking!" O'Conner gave Shepard a dig in the ribs. "You look fine!"

Shepard gave her a forced smile. This short was definitely not to her taste.

"Aha…"

Shepard's deadpan cracked at the exclamation. Apparnetly, O'Conner had found someone to give attention to. "I take it I'll be drinking alone?"

"I'll ask if he's got a friend."

Shepard shook her head, shooing O'Conner with one hand. O'Conner was a _people person_ in a way Shepard had never seen. If she wanted to chat up some guy at the bar, he'd happily keep O'Conner company until O'Conner decided it was time to leave. Just like that, with hardly any apparent effort.

By the time O'Conner was chatting amiably, Shepard rose to get another soft drink. The bartender—attention fixed on an asari chatting amiably with another human—did not realize Shepard wanted his attention until the asari and her companion wandered off. "Oi!" Shepard banged the counter with her hand. Not impatiently, merely to get the man's attention. "You done ogling aliens or what?"

"Huh?"

She did not care that he was ogling the asari. She cared that she had hailed him politely three times now, and the only answer she got was 'huh?'.

"Hey."

Shepard closed her eyes, feeling something irritated _loom_ behind her. "Just a minute." She turned from the bartender to find herself nose to nose with a krogan. "Yeah?" It sounded more polite than 'what?'.

"What'd you say?" The smell of booze on his breath left Shepard certain he was well on his way to drunk, and would not care if she apologized. Aliens thought humans didn't know their place, that they were pushy, self-centered, and self-superior to all other races.

From what Shepard could tell, humanity weren't the only ones with those particular failings.

"I told the bartender when he was done ogling the aliens..." Shepard began coolly.

The krogan gave her a push, which sent the small of her back into the counter. "Watch who you're calling 'alien', meatsack."

Shepard's eyes flashed. "All right, you overgrown frogman…"

Another push, and Shepard's temper began to flicker. If the krogan were human, she'd have already given him fair warning about the inadvisability of pushing strangers around like this. "If you ask me, you're the alien, and definitely not tough enough to sling insults..."

"Which just shows you're really as dumb as you look." O'Conner appeared beside Shepard. "I knew you'd start having fun if I just left you alone," she added, though her eyes remained fixed on the krogan. "Get lost, or you're gonna find a pair of size nines up your froggy ass."

Shepard crossed her arms, glowering at the krogan.

A moment later he sniffed, his posture relaxing. He did not give the impression of backing down, so much as finding something with which to be amused. "You talk tough, for a shell-less little jelly."

"We're _marines_, dammit," O'Conner snarled, reading a reference to the general navy in the krogan's comment, whether it was there or not.

Shepard did not honestly think the krogan knew enough to call a marine a squid to start a fight, and doubted he would have cared if he did.

"Do I look like I care?" The krogan snarled.

"No, but you look like you could use a drink and so could I," Shepard cut in, contriving to sound bored. She was not going to get into a barfight with a krogan. Not today.

O'Conner arched her eyebrows, still bristling.

The krogan gave another snorting laugh. "Bored already?"

"Better bored than dead. You want a drink or not?" Shepard asked with a bite of impatience.

O'Conner leaned on the bar, after the krogan let Shepard buy his drink, his toadlike face pulled into a grimace of mild disbelief—as though he had just seen a scale-less turian, or a shell-less fellow krogan. "I can't believe you bought that creep a drink."

"I can't believe he _let_ me buy him a drink…that could have gone really badly."

"Speaking of which," the bartender hissed in a low tone, "we'd appreciate it if the marines didn't pick fights with the aliens."

Shepard grimaced, but did not call the lad to task about paying attention to paying customers. She had gotten districted before, though to her credit not while on duty. Besides, it was throwing around the word 'alien' that started things in the first place.

"Hey, we're _marines_, not _navy_..."

"O'Conner," Shepard took her drink, giving it a slurp before presenting her back to the bartender, so she could face her friend and the room at large. "You _really_ think he knows enough about the human military? Or do you think we just look like shell-less meatsacks with no backbone and really nice manners?"

O'Conner's expression darkened. "Good point…I can't _believe_ you nearly got me to fight a _krogan_!"

Shepard nearly sprayed her drink all over the floor.


	25. Dreams

--Dreams--

--

Shepard collapsed onto narrow bed with a groan. After managing not to get pounded to paste by a krogan—who did not know who close Shepard had come to letting out an undignified 'eep' of intimidation, wholly inappropriate to a marine. Forget going 'eep', her burning eyes closed as she groaned again, she had exercised considerable effort to think, to act carefully rather than go with her guts and run away. She supposed she _had_, in a manner of speaking, but at least the krogan slapped her upside the back—nearly slamming her face into the table—before he left.

Krogan respected a badass, but did not react well to intimidation.

Despite burning eyes and the aching leadenness of her body, Shepard's mind refused to wind down. O'Conner's dire warnings of caffeinated sleeplessness finally come to pass. Shepard rolled onto her side, that wouldn't last too long. It never did. It still puzzled her how O'Conner could drag her out of hiding on the one day she wanted to be left alone, make her wear something sparkly, and at the end of the night, leave her admitting to enjoying herself.

Forget sitting on the fringes like a wallflower. Shepard didn't know how her crafty friend managed it, but both of them wound up dancing, partying as though there was no tomorrow—though, unlike those last big flings, both managed to remain sober enough to keep themselves at home, O'Conner through discretion, Shepard through her genetic inability to process alcohol normally; a disposition which ran in her family. Being a teetotaler was less a choice and more self-preservation.

Now she was home, home in the quiet. She quickly got out of bed, realizing her hair and clothes both smelled of booze and cigarette smoke. This time, no jangling ringtones interrupted her scrub down, the hot water easing tension in her muscles. It was strange, to find herself dancing in an alien friendly bar so far away from everything she once knew. Once this melancholy thought skittered across her mind, like a dark shadow against the ground of something airborne her mood began to darken in its wake.

_Don't go home and mope_, O'Conner declared, concern for making her case winning over gentler speech—a classically O'Conner failing. _And don't feel guilty for having a good time, either. Better to celebrate the dead by living than by sitting around feeling bad. _

By that time, Shepard was too tired to argue. Yes, her parents had told her, year after year when the subject of death came up, they wanted a party or something instead of a depressing funeral. Play upbeat music to dance to, instead of dirges, and enjoy catered food—and cake. Her father had insisted on the presence of cake.

_Funerals are for the living_, her mother said, _so you might as well enjoy the memories of my life, instead of mourning them. _

But they hadn't expected to die as they had. Perhaps it was simply the shock of losing her entire family in such a relatively short time, perhaps it was the way her father had died, right in front of her, melted like some marshmallow figure, but when the Alliance wanted to hold the bodies, she had not argued. She had not even asked why—even at sixteen, she understood the importance. Even if she had felt up to wanting to bury her parents, her older brother, her younger siblings, she remembered all her legal-aged family members were organ donors. They'd prefer their bodies go to some use. Finding ways to treat the effects of batarian weaponry would be a good use of their deaths.

The Alliance buried them, too, once they were finished. Shepard couldn't to bring herself to go back to Mindoir, to see the stark headstones with the so-familiar names, cold as the earth they marked, and just as devoid of her loved ones.

Shepard pulled her pajamas on, sitting on the edge of her bed for a moment before pulling out the pistol case from beneath it, letting the black box rest upon her knees. Automatically, she pressed the activation pad on the lamp, which immediately filled the dim room with light that danced off the textured case in her lap.

No tears came even if her eyes stung, as she unlocked the case, popping it open. Cradled in the padded interior lay a pair of satin toe shoes. They were stereotypical pink satin ballet slippers, neither of which showed any sign of wear, or use.

For an indeterminate amount of time, Shepard simply stared at the shoes, one finger caressing the satin as though it were the ear of a sleeping kitten.

Shepard snapped the box closed, locked it, and slid it back under the bed. She settled in bed again, hidden by the blankets, knowing the last of her dreams lay where such fragile things belonged, locked up safely where no one could see them. Precious memories well protected, but un-discussed and unseen by anyone else, wholly impossible to forget, but essentially useless when life and reality set in.

_Dreams can be dangerous. Dangerous things are best kept under lock and key_, Shepard reminded herself. The lump in her throat, however, informed her she was fooling everyone but herself, when implying she was 'over' Mindoir.

She wasn't 'over' anything. She simply didn't want to discuss it. She could show grace when people offered condolences out of the blue, but she didn't want to hear them. O'Conner, as her best friend, had a free pass to touch on the delicate subject, though.

Curling up on her side, Shepard closed her eyes, forcing her mind to quiet, forcing herself to relax, hoping to silence the screams of a terrified sixteen-year-old echoing in the now eighteen-year-old's mind.

Screams she knew not even sleep could fully drown for tonight, like so many nights, came the old nightmares. Pink satin slippers—hopes of a future no longer possible—and ashes of dead dreams wove through her restless sleep.


	26. Sport

--Sport--

--

The rain pounded the installation unendingly, hammering on windows and on those unlucky enough to wind up outside. The heavy rain meant staying indoors, which was why Gina O'Conner sprawled on Shepard's couch, watching Shepard sit on the floor, tinkering with some new piece of tech. The package came with morning mail, which came shortly before it started raining and put a damper on O'Conner's plans to go _out_.

So plans changed, O'Conner and Shepard loafing about Shepard's apartment, reminding O'Conner why Shepard needed someone to keep a friendly eye on her.

The woman was a geek-nerd of the highest degree, and only her proficiency with a firearm stopped people from hazing her unmercifully. O'Conner had not seen Shepard this preoccupied, or this close to happy, ever. "Shepard, you're hopeless."

"So you've said." Shepard stopped her fiddling to glance back over her shoulder at O'Conner. "All morning, and at least twice a week, every week, since we started hanging out together." Shepard hardly minded. _She_ informed O'Conner she was reckless and crazy at least twice a week, if not more. Shepard went back to her tinkering: it was the reason they worked so well together, and managed to stay friends. They tended to balance each other out, O'Conner showing a little more reserve than she might otherwise show, and Shepard occasionally putting toes across the line between reserved and 'having a life'.

O'Conner sat up, and stretched before rearranging the pillows on the couch. "I want some of this smelly stuff you put on these." It certainly kept the apartment from getting too dusty-must between bouts of base-side downtime.

"It's on the…" Shepard gagged as O'Conner, having located the bottle, sprayed it in her direction. "Too much, a little too much…"

"Yeah…didn't realize it'd be that strong…" O'Conner's eyes watered as she gingerly put the glass spray bottle back on the end table. Both woman choked and coughed for a few minutes, until the scented mist thinned out enough to let them breathe properly.

Shepard's new tech beeped, almost cheerfully, causing Shepard to hum under her breath—something she did not do often.

O'Conner heard the humming and knew it was proof of the nerd glasses coming out. "Shepard, your nerd glasses are showing."

Shepard snorted. "Well…that's not surprising. You know I was a..."

"…nerd in high school, yeah I know. I hung out with a lot of them." O'Conner finished. When Shepard glanced back at her, eyes raised, O'Conner gave her a toothy grin. "It _always_ pays to have smart friends."

Shepard snorted, managing not to roll her eyes at this. "Well, nerd glasses are nothing to be ashamed of. I can still outshoot you. _No_ glasses required."

O'Conner's momentary silence spoke loudly of the grimace Shepard could not see. "See, you know what your problem is?"

"I'm sure you're going to tell me _all_ about it." Shepard's tech beeped again.

"You need a _sport._" O'Conner grinned as Shepard stopped her tech fiddling, the sudden cessation of clicks and beeps indicating the stillness. O'Conner settled back, comfortable, the haze of fragrance drifting lazily about her nose.

"A _sport_?" Shepard turned around, bracing herself against the floor to goggle at O'Conner. "I don't need a _sport_. I shoot guns and play with tech…" Her surprise and bewilderment could not have been clearer, not without the dictionary entry for the words hovering in the air beside her.

"Shepard," O'Conner reasoned with mock patience. "Trust me, you need a sport. The Captain builds little ships in bottles."

"The Captain is ROAD*." Shepard scoffed, beginning to fiddle with her omni-tool again. "And I lack the dexterity."

"Excuses excuses," O'Conner teased. "I know you're not a ship-building kind of girl. You're a kayaking kind of girl..."

"I live on a spaceship how many months out of the year?"

"Or a rock climbing girl…"

Shepard did not buy this, either. "If I take up rock climbing, I might as well take the certification for rugged terrain survival. I'm sure they have qualifications for something like that."

"Yeah, now your nerd glasses are _really_ showing. You can take up racquetball—I play."

Shepard's beeping stopped again. "_You_ play racquetball?"

"Yeah," O'Conner sat up, finally feeling a measure of the indignation Shepard felt at being told she needed a sport. "I happen to have been a racquetball champ in high school. You know, _no one_," she gestured to the base in general, "ever mentioned insane rainstorms around here."

Ruefully, Shepard nodded. "No, I didn't expect killer rainstorms either."

O'Conner sighed heavily, then joined Shepard on the floor, sitting opposite her friend. "So what is this project?"

Shepard's teal eyes lifted from her tech for a moment before she looked back down and complacently answered. "I'm programming my new omni."

"I can see that…didn't you just _get _a new omni?"

Shepard stopped her steady programming, surprise stamped on her features. "What? _That_ thing?" She pointed over her shoulder. Sure enough, O'Conner could make out the standard issue Bluewire omni-tool half hidden under a pile tech magazines. "It's crap. It's a Bluewire. Standard issue hunk of junk—you know how it is. Besides…" A rapturous smile lit Shepard's face, mingling with the omni-tool's glow. "This is a _nice _one…it's got that new omni smell." Shepard ran a hand over the wrist unit.

The bells and whistles all showed up on the holographic display.

"Shepard. You're a geek. I'm going to _save_ you from yourself. As soon as this rain quits, we're going to the gym. I'm going to teach you to do something aerobic, exciting, and…"

"…unlikely to kill me." Shepard shook her head, knowing the 'it won't kill you' argument waited in the wings. "I don't _need_ a sport. But," she held up a finger to forestall O'Conner's impending argument, "if you need someone so _you_ can play, all you have to do is _ask_."

O'Conner's shoulders slumped; the word _busted_ echoing in her head accompanied by Shepard's soft humming and the beep of the new now-functioning omni-tool.

--

*For those who don't know, ROAD is Retired on Active Duty.


	27. Seeking Solace

--Seeking Solace--

--

Gina O'Conner was not surprised when the buzzer on her apartment went off at an unearthly hour. Only one person would ever come see her this late at night. Fortunately, O'Conner had expected this unannounced visit. Abandoning this month's issue of _Evenston's Firearms_, O'Conner walked over to the door.

"Heya Shepard." O'Conner waved Shepard into the apartment, standing aside as she did so.

"You're not busy?" Dressed as she was, it was painfully obvious Shepard had not wakened O'Conner, despite the late hour. Last year Shepard and O'Conner were on duty, in space when Shepard's birthday rolled around. At the time Shepard gave the impression of not wanting anyone's company so O'Conner, for once, had left Shepard well enough alone. But they were closer friends now, so Shepard's presence indicated.

"Nah, just reading _Guys with Guns_."

Shepard gave a tired sigh that might have been a laugh. "Sorry it's so late."

"Nah, have a seat," O'Conner waved to the small table located near her minifridge. Reaching back into the fridge, O'Conner pulled out a pair of bottled soft drinks, and set them on the table.

Shepard opened hers automatically with a quiet 'thanks', as she produced a battered deck of playing cards, shuffled, and dealt a hand to O'Conner.

O'Conner wordlessly picked up her cards. Shepard was not a very accomplished card player, but thankfully she was better now than when she'd first come in. "You want to hit the court tomorrow?"

"Sure." Shepard dealt O'Conner a card, when she tapped the table with a finger. "Can't hurt."

"Not unless you get pegged with the ball."

Shepard leaned heavily on the table. She hated birthdays—thankfully, people noticed and tended to leave her well enough alone. For some, it was a celebration of surviving another year (or moving another year closer to their getting out of the Alliance military). For Shepard, it reminded her yet again about family members who would have gathered with her. The pain of those events had dulled, had continued to dull a little more every day that passed, but major holidays and birthdays seemed to reopen wounds she desperately wished would scar over.

O'Conner kept unusually quiet as Shepard continued to fight back images of frosting-faced younger siblings, the ponytail tweaks when she was young, the jokes about getting older, the smell of cake and smoke.

"I win. Gimme the cards."

Shepard handed over her cards and the deck, watching as O'Conner shuffled with remarkable dexterity.

"You're getting better, you know."

"Thanks." Shepard sipped her soft drink, letting the fizz buzz burning cold in her mouth for a moment before swallowing it down. She had enjoyed participating in O'Conner's last birthday, had enjoyed coming up with the plans for it. She did not enjoy her own half so much. Could there really have been a time, when she sat through classes fitfully, eager to get home? When cake and minty-chip ice cream were the highlight of the day, when candles were just so many fizzling lights?

It was a holiday for a family, Shepard frowned as she wordlessly requested another card. Sort of pointless for someone who did not have one any longer. She could live without cards, or cake, or gift wrap, or the hideous chorus of 'happy birthday' sung—in some cases deliberately—off key, or with new, ad lib lyrics.

Now, she could live without the gaping hold the personal holiday uncovered. If she could have erased her birthday off the calendar, she would have done it.

Which was why she appreciated O'Conner's continued quietness—which was probably killing the energetic woman—why she appreciated O'Conner even being up this late, let alone _home_ on a _Saturday_. In fact, the lack of any plans to make her get out and enjoy 'her day' unnerved Shepard a little. The conspicuous lack of the usual attempts to get Shepard to feel a bit of _joie de vivre_ was not lost on her.

She id ndot want to go out, have 'fun'. But it was nice to sit here, quietly playing cards and sucking on a soft drink, without anyone expecting her to smile, or join in any sort of festive behavior.

And for someone who had spent most of the day isolated by choice, it was nice to have some company without having to feign an enthusiasm she did not really feel.

Shepard lost another hand, then another, then almost won one. "Almost got you that time," Shepard sighed, finally breaking the silence.

"Almost." O'Conner shuffled the cards, then glanced over at the clock—well after midnight.

"It's getting a little late," Shepard noted, not having seen O'Conner check the clock. "Really late…"

"Sit down, stick around for a couple more hands," O'Conner advised. "I'm not tired—and it's a Saturday."

"Was." Shepard agreed, but settled back into the chair.

O' Conner dealt the cards then got up, pulling out another pair of soft drinks from the minifridge.

Shepard did not look up until she heard a quiet chink, and the flick of a lighter.

Looking past her cards she saw two slices of cheesecake—both almost ominously green with brown chocolate flecks—on little plastic desert plates. One slice had two spindly candles, which O'Conner was lighting with a lighter, while trying not to singe the cake. Once she succeeded she wordlessly pushed the slice towards Shepard, careful not to cause the candles to gutter and die out.

Shepard watched the dancing light of the candles for a moment, her eyes stinging, though her mouth twitching as she made a genuine effort to smile.

"You'll crack your face doing that."

Shepard gave a wry laugh, succeeded in smiling, then blew out the candles. "Thanks, O'Conner." Then, to disguise the hoarse note in her tone, Shepard cleared her throat, pulling the candles from the cake. "So…how's the latest issue of _Hunks with Handguns_?"

"April's hot—you think they'd save him for June or July, but..." O'Conner shrugged. "The handgun's a piece of crap though."


	28. Deep Thoughts

--Deep Thoughts--

--

The music at the only club catering to enlisted servicemen pulsed and throbbed. As was Shepard's custom, she sat with a drink and a couple now-empty fruit skewers as far away from the blasting music as she could get. Rather than toying with her omni-tool—and partly to give O'Conner a reason to make faces at her—she sat with a logic puzzle before her, deep in thought.

This one was difficult, especially with all the distractions around her. Fortunately, Shepard enjoyed a challenge. The realm of deep thought blocked out most of the music, making the noise level bearable. O'Conner never gave up trying to thrust Shepard into the realm of 'having fun'.

For the past six months or so, O'Conner had actually been running hot and cold with regards to going out looking for the ever-elusive concept of 'fun' every time they hit Yamamoto Naval Station. Tonight was party business as usual, and they were heading out into the Traverse in a couple days. It seemed to Shepard O'Conner was determined to live an entire lifetime of dancing and flirting into the last days of liberty before heading out to battle intergalactic scumbags.

Shepard had not yet asked why, but was beginning to be very curious.

She, personally, could not wait to get back into the Traverse. The last stint was spent rooting out mercenaries trying to put down roots on some of the uninhabited worlds. The last bunker they cleared contained several kilos of Red Sand. Shepard did not know any biotics personally, but the stories about Red Sand—and how it often ended for those caught in its web—left a bad taste in her mouth.

It was just like the drug wars of the twentieth—something no one could win. But people still fought the good fight. In that same bunker were also several crates of high-credit weapons, which _should not have been there_. The Alliance was already moving to find out _exactly_ where those weapons came from.

She did not pity the idiot who wanted to make a few credits by selling not-really-surplus. The idea of the Alliance's own weapons pointed at the Alliance's own marines—her and O'Conner particularly—made her want to smash the seller's face in.

It was terrifying work, sometimes, but at the end of the day (once everyone was safe) she knew she could not do anything else in the galaxy _but _a soldier's work.

She added a few Xs and Os to the grid. If she had to be deep in thought, these were not thoughts she wanted to have. The wish to keep the evening pleasant made banishing thoughts of weapons, Red Sand, and scumbags easier.

The fizz in her drink made it easier. Too bad she was out of fruit skewers, and of no mind to fight her way up to the bar. She had learned a lot in the last two years of hanging around with O'Conner, and elbowing her way up to the bar without being politely timid was one of them.

Had it really been two years? It was '73, it must be. How time flew.

O'Conner chose this moment to break away from the dance floor, to check on her friend, as she usually did every so often. Shepard was liable to crawl into her shell, if she had not already. Looking closer, O'Connor decided Shepard had not—she was simply thinking hard.

Which was not something one ought to do at a time like this, in a place like this.

Shepard might blow a fuse.

Rather than irritating O'Conner, it amused her. She liked Shepard enough to overlook her peculiarities. And O'Conner understood, that for Shepard to come to a place like this, was progress the likes of which she never expected to see when she first met Shepard.

Things like those Shepard had seen would not leave a person the most sociable of creatures, but here she was. Perhaps why she took so much trouble to keep Shepard from becoming a duty-oriented recluse. Such an existence seemed impossibly bleak—and quite unhealthy—to O'Conner's view of life. Life was exciting, something to be approached with enthusiasm.

"Shepard, what _are_ you doing?" O'Conner dropped into the chair across from Shepard, sweaty from exuberance on the dance floor. She never did anything halfway, whether it be professionally, or dancing at a club.

It was this exuberance Shepard half envied.

"Thinking." Shepard glanced up from the logic puzzle on her datapad. Truthfully, her thoughts had again drifted to the point she forgot about the puzzle. Now her attention came back to the present, the noise in the room pounded more noticeably against her eardrums.

"You're the only person I know who would take a logic puzzle to a club." O'Conner shook her head, but peered at the puzzle, a grid full of Xs and Os.

"Lucky thing, huh?" Shepard added a few more Xs to the grid.

"Hey Shepard?"

"Hm?" Shepard added an O.

"How much wood could a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" O'Conner asked slyly.

"As much wood as a woodchuck could chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood," Shepard enunciated carefully, the unpleasant visage of Mike Yamada swimming before her eyes. She could still hear his alliterations while 'toughening up' his recruits. Albeit Yamada and woodchucks (or comments about them) were never found in the same room.

O'Conner stuck her tongue out at Shepard, who pretended not to notice, before she swept back to the dance floor.

Shepard, alone again, smiled complacently. A stupid answer for a stupid question. But she and O'Conner both registered the flicker of a sense of humor, which O'Conner was forever trying to dredge.

With a sigh she put her datapad aside, took a sip of her nonalcoholic beverage, and followed O'Conner onto the dance floor, earning an approving whoop from that individual.

Deep thoughts could wait. It was time for, to coin O'Conner's phrase, a human tribal dance. An exuberant one.


	29. Dying

--Dying--

--

"_All right kids, come on back home now_," Mission Coordinator Jefferson drawled over the helmet radios, his Australian accent thick, but something the ground team was used to hearing. "_You've got fifteen before it gets a little warm out there._"

With most of the mercenaries forced to bunker down in their base, the two strike teams pullingback as quickly as they could, getting out of the range of fire when _Midway _ and _Alamo_ unleashed their plasma cannons. Going was slower than they would have liked, with two of the team having taken minor injuries, one of which impeded mobility.

Over the sounds of running and the muffled sounds of her own heavy breathing Shepard suddenly heard the 'pop-pop-pop' of three round bursts, followed by further fire. "Hey! We've got shots fired!" She called along the radios.

"And they're getting closer!" O'Conner called back, slowing her run even as the rest turned to look towards the thick jungles of the equatorial band. A world with an atmosphere with a high content of methane and carbon, it was not hospitable for human habitation on a large scale, but almost any world hosting vegetation could host the right sort of bunker. In fact, the more hostile the environment, the more appealing the world for collecting scumbags like pocket lint.

"_You've got ten minutes, kids!" _Jefferson's voice cut over the all-call.

The fire drew nearer as suddenly a human fell out of the trees, into the path the team had cut to get to the bunker in the first place. "Oi! You're running the wrong way!" Shepard shouted, her voice carrying to the human who was indeed running towards the base slated for target practice.

He yelped, hitting the ground with a flash of kinetic shields.

Shepard raised her rifle, squinting into the treeline.

"He'll never get out of here on his own!" O'Conner started forward, but team-lead Marx's restraining landed on her shoulder, even as Shepard's weapon rang out, dropping one of the pursuers, who had not realized there were marines present. "It's just a small force—we know we've got most of them holed up!"

"Marx! He's not gonna get up on his own steam, I don't think!" Shepard relayed, her eyes shifting between he suddenly still trees and the downed marine.

"It could be a trap!" Marx argued, the unease he felt at leading the team for the first some showing painfully.

"He's _Alamo_!" Shepard argued. Armor with a beige stripe—_Alamo's_ ground force.

"And he's not dead, yet! Shepard?" O'Conner appealed.

"Well get him out!" Shepard addressed Marx. "It shouldn't take the whole unit! Take Sahn and Knotts and get out of here!"

Marx grimaced, heard Jefferson's update on the count, and nodded. "All right, do it."

Shepard and O'Conner moved forward, Shepard activating her omni-tool, sending out a signal to overheat anything in the immediate area.

"Hold it," O'Conner stopped, Shepard drawing up short behind her. This close they could hear the man's whimpers of pain as he struggled feebly. "Cover me…"

"I'll go," Shepard argued. "I can jam them with my omni—you'll be a sitting duck, if I can't see where to shoot."

O'Conner frowned, then nodded, giving Shepard's shoulder a 'go ahead' pat, kneeling on the ground, her eyes focused into the silent treeline.

Shepard ducked low, hurrying forward, the jamming signal emitting from her omni-tool less protective than she let O'Conner believe, but more effective than nothing.

Dropping to her knees, Shepard threw herself forward as O'Conner's rifle erupted behind. "Oi!" Shepard gave the man a shake. When he groaned, she produced a tube of medigel, broke it open, and squeezed the whole thing into the hole in his armor. The wound did not look fatal. "Up you get."

The man hung heavily on Shepard, making her wonder if he was going into shock, he was so unresponsive. She had one fleeting view of O'Connor, kneeling with her rifle, before a weapon screamed out of sight.

Shepard dropped the soldier she was wrangling, ducked, and unslung her rifle from her shoulder. Before Shepard could do more than this the ground ahead of her, practically at O'Conner's feet, exploded with a _boom_ she felt press into her armor.

Shepard pointed in the direction the shell had come from, despite knowing, deep down, the mercenary behind the mortar would have already slithered back into the jungle, before she, the only other able bodied person, came after him.

Even if the base was leveled, they had made the ground teams pay for it.

Unloading two blasts, Shepard slung her weapon over her shoulder, and roughly dragged the rescued soldier to where the mortar impacted. O'Conner lay in the underbrush, her armor deeply scored, her helmet bearing shrapnel, evidencing the force of impact. The blood across the visor, and the noodle-limpness of the body told Shepard O'Conner was gone. The shrapnel in her helmet driven in too far for her to yet live.

"_Five minutes—are you all clear_? _Who's that straggling?_"

"It's Shepard…" Shepard's tone carried a bite of desperation. "Are we clear?"

"You're in the yellow zone, Shepard…what happened?"

"We went back for a straggler…he's hurt, semi-responsive," Shepard shouted, desperation making her voice rise, despite the fact Jefferson could hear her quite clearly via the radio uplink. "O'Conner's…" Shepard's voice broke. "O'Conner's dead, sir!"

The words made the facts real, filling Shepard's stomach with an uncomfortable icy feeling. An icy feeling that froze all through except the urge to shout at Jefferson to forgo the last few minutes for them to get clear, and light the base up like a fireworks display on Armistice Day.

"Dead?"

"Guerilla fire! She got hit by a shell..." The realization that her words made solid swirled in Shepard's mind, the icy sludge of through suddenly turning red, whirling like a maelstrom in her mind, drawing all things towards the realization that Gina O'Conner, her best friend, was _dead_. O'Conner had died on a routine mission, because of a lucky shot…


	30. Sorrow

--Sorrow--

--

Shepard swallowed hard, her mind blank as a freshly laundered sheet, hanging limply on the line. A person saw death as a marine—friends, enemies, teammates, the kid who'd just climbed on the boat, the poor bastard who was unlucky enough to hit dirt ahead of everyone else.

_The poor bastard_. No one wanted to be that person. And despite the moniker, no one meant it as an insult, merely a name to hold back disappointment or shock at how a person could be alive and shouting one minute, then stare glassily into nothing the next.

Shepard closed her eyes. The image of O'Conner's helmet, riddled with shrapnel and spattered on the inside with blood haunted her. And what about the sweetheart O'Conner recently admitted to having? How was Shepard supposed to find him, she only had a first name. A first name and no posting, though she knew he was a pilot.

Not a lot to go on.

"We therefore commit the earthly remains of Gina C. O'Conner to the void, looking for the general Resurrection in the last day, and the life of the world to come, through our Lord Jesus Christ," the chaplain declared, his voice calm, almost soothing to those with nerves rubbed raw, and frayed by grief.

Of all the ways Shepard though O'Conner might die, she never expected it to be heroic. No one wanted to be a hero, or to see a friend become one. Generally hero was also synonymous—as in this case—with dead. And hero or not, the dead were still _dead_.

_Greater love has no one than this__ that he lay down his life for his friends._

And he had to live with that… Shepard's eyes slid to the pale Private they had gone back for. O'Conner's death weighed heavier on him than on anyone else, even Shepard. O'Conner died helping rescue him. The lad gave every appearance of being on the brink of tears, unable to hide the blotchy redness of his face. As much as she mourned O'Conner's death, she could not find it in herself to blame the boy.

O'Conner knew what she was doing. Shepard knew what she was doing. They knew what they were doing when they went back for a shell-shocked private, separated from a decimated unit.

And what had killed O'Conner? What had put the boy's arm in a sling, and peppered her own brow and face with scratches and shallow wounds? A badly aimed shell. A very lucky shot. The twist-ties on the side of Shepard's face, holding her skin together pulled as her eyes narrowed.

"…at whose second coming in glorious majesty to judge the world, the deeps shall give up their dead; and the corruptible bodies of those who sleep in him shall be changed, and made like unto his glorious body; according to the mighty working whereby he is able to subdue all things unto himself. Amen," the chaplain concluded.

"Amen," Shepard repeated, her voice lost in a small crowd. Out of the corner of her eyes she could see the present Catholics drawing the sign of the cross. Her eyes stung, but the tears did not come as O'Conner's casket was walked somberly into the airlock. With no family to claim the body, O'Conner had wanted burial in space.

_Think about it, Shepard: space walking without a suit. It's better than feeding worms. _

Death never seemed anywhere in the landscape of O'Conner's world, whereas it always hunkered, like cold slimy shadows on the corners of Shepard's vision. Not now, though. Now, all thoughts of death hung like curtains around the coffin containing the remains of her best friend.

All hands snapped to, prepared for the committal. The longer the ceremony continued, the harder it became for Shepard not to close her eyes and leave them closed, to let her chin flop forward hopelessly towards her chest. The stinging in her eyes redoubled as the airlock opened, the casket pulled out into the void of space, before drifting placidly, like a boat on a dark river.

Heads bowed as one for the chaplain's benediction. As her eyes closed again, Shepard's mind closed down with it, the darkness offering no comfort. Sorrow weighed heavy through the rest of the service. The last note of Taps made Shepard's eyes sting again, this time tears pooled in the corners of her eyes.

Once the assembly was dismissed, she reached up slowly, and dabbed the moisture onto her fingers, unable to remember the last time she had cried. All the grief after Mindoir had seemed to wring her dry. It seemed to her, as she strode back towards her duty station, somber, white-faced and thin-lipped, that this most recent death of someone close to her meant to squeeze out the very last drops of saltwater in her, leaving her dry eyed, cold as a stone and feeling just as heavy as one.

Settling at her workstation, Shepard pulled on her gloves and keyed in, as the rest of the bridge's hands came trooping in, somber and sedate. Life might go on, but without O'Conner's company, it would certainly go on a little slower, and a lot less amusing.

"Sir," the communications officer spoke up, "the _SSV Alamo _is requesting an open channel."

"I'll take it in the comm. room." The Captain strode briskly off the bridge, leaving a thick silence hanging unpleasantly in the air. It seemed to Shepard there should be some greater mark, indicating the loss the crew had suffered. An empty workstation, walls hung with black crepe, a slow dirge echoing through the comm. system, _something_.

And yet, even as she applied herself to her duties, the interface glowing amber on her skin, she could not help feeling that the absence of all those obvious signs pointed more vigorously to the fact that someone, a good marine, a good friend, was _gone_.

"You all right, Shepard?" One of the security officers asked, as he walked past.

"Fine," she lied.

--

AN: Special thanks www[dot]history[dot]navy[dot]mil[backslash]faqs[backslash]faq85-1[dot]htm#anchor147820, for providing details of the procedure for burial at sea. Also, thanks to www[dot]tothedeep[dot]com[backslash]ceremony[dot]htm for the wording, which was edited for space travel.


	31. Drowning

--Drowning--

--

Private Shepard sat in the darkest, dingiest dive she could find, glaring into her empty glass as feelings of resentment, frustration, guilt and pain swirled like a toxic miasma. All around her were nameless faces, nameless people doing the same thing she would have liked to do.

Drown.

Drowning their sorrows in cheap, loud-smelling booze. Drowning themselves if they found someone to take home for the night. Hiding the fact they were drowning _again_, and looking for life buoys _here_ because they did not know where else to look.

The depressive atmosphere of the place—of what she attributed to this place—suited Shepard, even if she knew it would only drag her further down. The image of O'Conner's dead body refused to come off the backs of her eyelids. The sounds of the funeral in space echoed in her ears.

And worst of all, she could almost imagine O'Conner sitting across from her.

_How do you _know_, though? Did you just go out and try it, to see?_

And now she was drowning in delusion. The old teasing question about her strict teetotaler behaviors, sprung repeatedly over the time she knew O'Conner, echoed loudly. This time she answered it, in a very quiet murmur, lost to the general din, but perfectly audible to her own delusions. "My older brother got it. I got it too. Found out over a box of chocolate liqueurs—the kiddy kind, too."

Shepard hunched on the table, her eyes stinging with tears, smoke and alcohol fumes. Here she was, twenty years old; old enough to drink herself into a coma if she wanted, and all she could do was sit staring at the grimy table.

"I didn't want you to die."

"Did you want something?" A harassed-looking waitress paused, having heard the mumbled sounds from the marine, but not the words.

Shepard looked up at the bleach-blonde, as though surprised to see another living human in the room. Or at least, a living human conscious of her presence. She'd begun to feel like a ghost, talking with the one in her own mind. "No, thank you…"

The waitress shrugged as though to say 'suit yourself' before striding off.

What a sad career to have, working in a bar—particularly a bar like this. Did it drown you, too, watching everyone else drown, slipping one by one beneath the tide of trouble assailing them? Did you simply watch until you went down too? Or was it like a shipwreck, and every drowning man clung to someone else, willing to push them under so _one _at least of them, could breathe.

_This is no fun, Shepard. We need to get your fun-meter recalibrated_.

Shepard shook her head, wondering if this was the first stage of insanity. Delusions. Drowning in delusions. Well, if she ever was going to get her fun-meter recalibrated, it would not be anytime soon. She might never do it, with her number one motivator to do so gone.

The bar filled—or got as full as it ever did—emptied and refilled. All the while Shepard sat at her little table for two in the corner, ignoring the blare of noise from the television, the chatter of the patrons, the harsh voices of the waiters and waitresses.

After what seemed to Shepard several weeks of silent battle to keep her personal ghost silent and invisible—she could hear the real O'Conner's laughter in the back of her mind at the silliness Shepard currently indulged in. Only Shepard would _make _herself a ghost to smother.

_It's a real catch twenty-two, Shepard. You better just pick your battles a little better._

Knuckles rapped on the edge of the table, making Shepard jump. The waitress form before frowned down at her, but the frown was almost one of concern. "You okay back here?" she asked, her voice still sharp, but not quite as much so.

"Yes…why?" Shepard blinked.

"It's almost closing time. Can I get you anything?"

Shepard picked up her glass, looking into it.

"You look like someone just died." Shepard sensed this was not meant unkindly. After all, how could the woman know?

"Someone did." Shepard put the cup on the waitress' tray, swallowing hard. "I'd like another glass of water, please."

"Just water?" The waitress arched her eyes, but seemed to be taking Shepard in, crossing off signs of intoxication, and wondering why she was here if not to drink.

"Just water, thank you." Shepard nodded, looking at the vacant seat before her. Once the waitress was gone, she leaned on the table. This time, no ghost of O'Conner, tricked out of her own tormented mind, appeared. She did not speak aloud, as the words should not fall on any human ears.

_I don't drink, O'Conner, because I can't. I have no tolerance—it's genetic. A couple chocolate liqueurs—those stupid cordial cherries you get around Valentine's Day?—it only took one or two to send me into shock. Hospital trip and everything._

No cough syrup, no booze, not even alcohol-laced candies. No parties where the drinks might be secretly spiked. Everywhere in this establishment was suicide in a glass. Hence her insistence on Astro-Fizz when she went out.

Or, the waitress returned with Shepard's water, just plain water. Seeming tough no longer was so important. She felt more and more that she had less and less to prove. To anyone. Perhaps it was the marine mentality really beginning to set in.

Shepard quickly finished her water, and got to her feet, pulling her jacket on snugly. She had never stayed in a bar until closing time before.

As she left the nearly empty dive bar, the feeling of drowning loosened. Invisible hands let go of the throat, but the sting in her eyes was to the sting of smoke and spirits. Shepard made her way back to a transit terminal, to hop back to the base.

Like a drowning woman rescued, the first thing she did was take a deep, cleansing breath.

--

And now you know why Shepard always opts not to drink.


	32. Love

--Love--

--

Shepard sat leaning against a bank of lockers aboard the _SSV Midway_, Fitzpatrick the cat curled up asleep in her lap. One pale hand gently smoothed the cat's now silky smooth fur. Even after living a lifestyle of good eating and general pampering by most of the crew, he never got much bigger than when they found him, though his ribs no longer showed through his coat. He no longer showed a tendency to bite, nor did he apparently feel the need to attack people's ankles, except on special occasions.

He did _not_ like sharing his food, but he had gotten more complacent about people other than Shepard or O'Conner petting him. All in all, he adapted very quickly to life amongst a human crew, and the crew adapted quickly to having a cat.

Aggrieved cries by unsuspecting crewmen of '_cat!_', '_O'Conner!'_ or '_Shepard!_' were almost unnecessary most days. Threats to field dress the cat and leave him out for varren on the nearest rock were wholly unnecessary anymore. The cook still liked to tease about cat tacos, when time to make port started getting close and supplies supposedly got short. Shepard still had not perfected the art of not bugging her eyes at this suggestion, before hurrying the cat to safety.

Once O'Conner died, the cat came to the decision that humans—specifically Shepard—could not be counted upon to survive without his supervision. This was why for several days after O'Conner's death she could hardly turn around without finding Fitz weaving about her ankles or calling loudly for her attention. That was when she threatened to put him in lockdown until she got off duty, before anyone with more rank than she had could tell her to show a little responsibility and manage her animal. The threat of lockdown was enough, convincing Fitz to simply nap under her chair, his furry side pressed against the heel of her boot, so he knew when she got up or moved around.

With the _Midway_ docked at a spaceport—Shepard paid little attention to which one—it was largely empty, hence why she could simply sprawl comfortably on the floor with the purring cat. Without O'Conner to convince her of the drawbacks of being a wallflower—or worse, a recluse—Shepard fell back on old nerd-like habits.

However, the datapad still requiring a good deal of scrutiny and a signature lay abandoned as Shepard dozed, lulled by the gentle rumble of Fitz's purr, and the warm weight of him on her lap. Why hadn't she gotten herself a cat earlier? No that Fitz was technically hers, he belonged to the crew at large…

…though he seemed to think she belonged to him. He wouldn't curl up and sleep against just anyone's sleeper pod, and several times immediately after O'Conner's death, he'd weaseled his way in to curl up by her feet. Shepard was convinced by now that cats were smarter than people gave them credit: the cat never tried to wake her up so he could get out when he crawled into the pod, but waited patiently until she opened it to start her day.

Who said cats couldn't be affectionate? She had believed it for many years, never thinking herself a cat person. However, either Fitz was an ornery cat with a soft spot for lonely humans, or it had more to do with the gentle hands that saved his life and helped bottle feed him for weeks, but he had changed her mind.

Fitz rolled onto his back, exposing his creamy belly and giving a soft snort in his sleep before Shepard began to rub his stomach. No one rubbed Fitz's stomach these days but Shepard; the cat would not permit it. Shepard had to admit, even if it was just favoritism from a cat, she liked being the exception to the rule.

Picking up the datapad again, Shepard slouched into a more comfortable position, her vivid eyes shifting this way and that. The words seemed to burn into her memory, line by line as Shepard scanned over it. Finally—she could not remember how many times she'd read this particular datapad without more than a few passing ideas and sinking in, but she _needed_ this, if she meant to advance.

And she meant to advance. Fitz was a reason to stay on the _Midway_. Maybe she could figure out how to adopt him, but she had a feeling that sooner or later, like all things she cared for, he would move on somewhere else. Either he'd run away, or someone would beat her to adopting him, or something terrible would happen.

Shepard tossed the datapad on the floor, continuing to rub the cat's stomach.

"Reow." Fitz opened one eye then flipped onto his stomach, stretching and flexing his claws. Obviously he felt it was lunchtime.

"Never had you figured for a cat person, Shepard."

Shepard shrugged at Gunny Arbor's way of letting her know he had arrived. "Me neither—little guy kinda grew on me." An understatement if ever she'd heard one. She loved the cat to pieces, which explained part of the reason he was so spoiled. She also remained convinced the cat loved her, such as cats love people, and while it did nothing to fill the gap of loss in Shepard's soul that seemed to widen and deepen with every passing year, it was something.

Arbor gave a soft snort of amusement at this, then carried on, the vibrations of his footfall fading as he walked away.

"All right, kitty," Shepard declared, kissing Fitz's head. If Arbor was back it meant the others would start trickling back, which meant she needed to quit sprawling as though she were in her own living room back in the _Midway's_ home port.

The cat hunched, ears flattened, but as Shepard transferred him off her lap, Fitz took a moment to lick her hand a few times, before rubbing his head insistently against her hip.

"I love you too."


	33. Last Hope

--Last Hope--

--

In her time on the _SSV Midway_, Shepard had seen plenty of things that made her nauseous: death, destruction and batarians blinking menacingly at her. She'd seen things that scared her: rifles and whatnot leveled in her direction, mortar shells zooming around, creepy ghost ships drifting through the space of the Attican Traverse.

She had not found herself stuck shipside while the _Midway_ blasted away at enemy ships. Wedged into her action station, with Fitzpatrick the cat hissing and whining under her seat, his claws hooked into the leg of her trousers, Shepard struggled with gritted teeth not to imitate him. She would rather face the rifles. Getting spaced was not something she wanted to learn about firsthand.

No one expected, when intercepting a panicked distress call from a civilian ship, to see it crash right in front of them. Even if there were survivors, the current predicament – commonly accepted to be mercenaries out of the Terminus Systems – of a space battle kept them from making a drop with the Mako.

Shepard hoped the ship's shielding would hold up during reentry.

The ship bucked as it took two hits, then lurched as it returned fire. Shepard hissed as Fitz, clawing for more security, finally sank his claws into her calf. However, now was not the time to correct the cat. She doubted anyone could hear him between orders over the comm. system and emergency klaxons.

The fight ended in seconds, the mercenaries vanishing abruptly the moment two of their four small ships disintegrated under fire from the plasma cannons. Everyone, even the more seasoned officers, looked around, as if waiting for the axe to fall.

"Negative contacts, Captain Ross."

Shepard's stomach unclenched at the announcement, as she gave Fitz a gentle shake to get him to disengage his claws.

"You're certain?" Ross looked pale, slightly older than usual, but otherwise composed.

"Yes sir. Negative contacts."

"Arbor, Shepard, Matheson," Shepard got up, as did the recruit she tended to think of as O'Conner's replacement got to their feet. It took them long enough to replace O'Conner. Months. "Get geared up – if there are survivors, I want them."

"Aye sir." Shepard led the party straight for the gear lockers, where she immediately began struggling into her armor, Fitz lurking nearby.

"Rifles today, Shepard." Arbor grunted as Shepard reached for her shotgun. "I don't want any accidents."

Shepard pulled the rifle out of her locker, laying it on the bench. Shepard pressed her comm. link. "Monitoring? Surface conditions."

The shipboard computer answered in a clear, efficient monotone: conditions were hazardous from high winds and the atmosphere was too high in carbon, risky to organics if exposed long-term. However, conditions would support survivors in the short-term, especially if the ship took only half the damage Shepard expected. Long-range scans with more details were muffled due to the weather planetside, or so reports trickling in through the comm. system indicated.

She suspected the ship was too damaged to hope for survivors, but she refused to accept that answer. It was too easy, and the easy way was rarely the right way.

"You really think anyone survived that?' Matheson asked, looking from Arbor to Shepard.

"We don't make calls like that," Shepard answered when Arbor did not. "We go down, we look, we either find survivors, or we find dead bodies."

Matheson made a noise in his throat as if he meant to argue, or ask more questions, but stopped the comment.

"Didn't they tell you that in basic, kid?" Arbor pulled his other boot on, missing Shepard's evil twin. "_'An assumption makes an ass out of 'u' and me_'?"

Shepard remembered that too. Chief Ramirez was fond of telling his recruits to 'safely assume' he'd put his foot to their asses if they acted on those sorts of assumptions. No one made assumptions when it came to survivors.

"We're their last hope, if anyone's down there. I wouldn't want anyone making assumptions if it was me," Shepard grunted. "_Fitz_. Go bug the pilot." She gave the cat, who made every effort to impede her progress for leaving the ship, a nudge with her foot. "Go on, now."

"_Cat_," Arbor grunted.

Giving Arbor a look of supreme dislike, gave Shepard a meow indicating he found her highly ungrateful for his attention and concern for her welfare before slinking off, his tail whipping out of sight as he left the garage.

Shepard ignored the look Arbor gave her, indicating that she was far too indulgent of that cat. Arbor admitted he was not much of a cat person. He simply didn't get it.

With the cat gone, Shepard's mind riveted on what she needed to do rather than getting ready to do it.

"Shepard, handle the drop – Matheson, you're up front with her." Arbor announced as he headed over to the Mako.

Shepard hurried after him, helping pull the tarpaulin off the Mako. Truth be told, it was best Arbor took the gunner's chair – she certainly did not want the green as grass Matheson managing the drop, and she had always had trouble managing the turret. Arbor said it would take time, but Shepard honestly wondered if this was not his way of agreeing she should stay away from the heavy artillery.

Shepard climbed into the Mako, and got it into position for the drop. "How many hundreds of thousands of credits for this hunk of junk…and it doesn't even have an OSD deck." Shepard announced as the feedback for the drop began trickling in. It was an old joke, and settled her nerves.

"What do you want an OSD deck for? You can't hear it over the engine." Arbor knew Shepard did not like making drops, even if she was good at soft landings. He did not like making drops either, but would never admit it.

The bay door opened, Shepard gunning the engine. At least anyone down there would know their last hope for rescue was coming: they'd hear the Mako before they saw it.


	34. Fortitude

"That's going to be a tight fit," Gunnery Chief Arbor noted, looking at the damaged airlock. Ten minutes of pounding, shouts of 'Alliance marines', and an attempt by Shepard to hack the shipboard computers had failed. Shepard was shocked, computers usually had a usually back door protocol for such rescues. Whatever was going on inside the wreck, the computer did not work. She should not be surprised, being already surprised that the heap had survived.

"That _is_ tight…" Matheson shook his head.

Shepard stepped up onto the ship, climbing it like a rock wall at a gym. "I can get in." With that she shrugged off her weapon harness, dropping it to the ground, though holding onto her rifle.

"Be careful," Arbor nodded.

Shepard did not respond to this. With a grunt and a lot of wiggling, as though trying to pull on a very tight pair of pants, Shepard worked her way through the gap, praying the whole while she would not get hung up.

Arbor, despite his best efforts not to antagonize the only person small to do this, would have killed himself laughing if she got stuck because she couldn't get her chest through the gap.

Shepard landed in a crouch, squinting into darkness of the corridor for a moment before raising her rifle, taking advantage of the light on it. "Alliance marines! Any survivors?" Her voice echoed eerily. No answer, so she made her way forward, prowling with her ears pricked for any sound of life, the sound of someone struggling to unpin themselves, anything.

The cockpit, Shepard discovered once she got past the airlocked door, was full of dead turians. The power was also dead, which explained why Shepard was unable to hack the shipboard computers. No kinetic barriers, just things locked down because they did not have the necessary power to open. She did not need to look far to discover what had killed them, a slow-leak decompression, and probably the air scorching when they entered the atmosphere. "Chief?" Shepard cued her helmet radio.

"_What is it?" _

"Power's dead, that's why I couldn't hack the system. The cockpit's full of dead turians, but emergency lockdowns initiated. I'm going to continue the sweep."

"_Do that." _

Hopefully _someone_ got to the ELSA units, they usually had their own power supplies.

The crew's quarters showed similar damage, though no survivors. Shepard's teeth grit tightly as she made her way towards the mess and medbay, praying someone got to their emergency protocols quickly enough.

The door opened only with a great amount of effort. Relief welled up in Shepard when she heard a terrified scream, and alien babble break out. Even with her translator, it still came out as gibberish.

Moving the light on her rifle around, the beam bounced off the plastic shell of an ELSA containing…

…one turian child. A panicking turian child.

"Hey, hey, little guy," she hoped this one was a guy, it was hard to tell with turians, let alone children, "it's okay. I'm with the Alliance…I'm one of the good guys." She doubted he would understand her. Kids did not usually wear translation devices, not being expected to interface with aliens.

Shepard set the rifle aside. Given the lack of anyone else in the room, she would bet credits the turians on board sealed the child in an ELSA as the fighting broke out, in hopes he would be safe, while the rest were at action stations.

The little turian stopped babbling as Shepard pulled off her helmet. Flabby, scaleless human features might not be reassuring, but at least she did not have four eyes. Setting her helmet on the nearest work surface, Shepard stepped up to the ELSA. "Come on, let's get you out of there, huh?" The child's panic seemed to ease as Shepard spoke, keeping her tone gentle.

She knew, perhaps a little too well, what it was to panic, to have faceless things come melting out of the darkness. Coming for you. "You're a tough little dude…just show me a bit more courage, okay?"

The turian turned his luminous blue eyes up at her, blinking birdlike as he did so.

"Fortitude, yeah?" Turians were big onto the honor-courage thing, or so Shepard understood. "Just hang in there." She did not want him panicking again, once she drew her knife to pop the ELSA and free him from the plastic bubble.

"Fur-ti-tude." The turian mumbled, quaking in the plastic shell as Shepard sunk the heavy blade into the plastic, pulling it along, causing the shell to hiss as air escaped through the rent. After a moment she pulled it apart with her hands, at which point the turian scrambled out of it.

"Mmm-ma?"

The obvious meaning of the mumbled word nearly broke Shepard's heart. "I'm still looking, sweetie. I just happened to get to you first." She hoped this would turn out to be more than little white lie. After all, she had not searched the whole ship yet…if there was one survivor, there might be more… "Let's get you out of here."

"Mmm-ma!"

"Honey, I'll look for her, but this is no place for you. Okay? Come on," she held out her hand to him, wiggling her fingers encouragingly, wondering just how old the child was.

After a few moments, the turian lurched, his little taloned hand closing tightly over Shepard's, scraping her handplates. He offered no resistance when she knelt, attempting to pick him up. He clung to her, like a drowning person to a life buoy, his scaly face scraping her jaw uncomfortably. Patting his back awkwardly, she retrieved her rifles.

She had to double back for her purposely-left helmet, and her knife. They were her excuse for giving the rest of the ship a once-over, to see if anyone had miraculously survived. No one would argue with her searching thoroughly for survivors. However, at some point she would have to accept the only survivor was safe in Alliance custody.

A truth she did not like.


	35. Innocence

Shepard stopped in at the medical bay once her shift was over. Fitzpatrick the cat had evidenced his disgust with her non-appreciation of his concern for her by keeping his distance, past giving her ankles a brush with his kitty shoulders as she returned.

He took her lack of a proper and highly edible peace offering as a personal affront, reminding her of the feline disposition towards opportunism.

Right now, however, Fitz lay curled up and purring, locked in the arms of the little turian—Valen. Curled on one side, his breathing even, the turian slept under a careful dose of sedatives administered by Dr. Greenwood. "How's he doing?" Shepard asked.

"You're the third person to ask me that so far. He's fine—a little shell shocked, a little upset, but he'll live," Dr. Greenwood answered crisply.

Shepard sighed, wondering who would have to tell the child his parents were dead, and when the terrible news would have to fall. In a vein Shepard called cowardly, she hoped fervently she was not the one who had to deliver the news. A marine she might be, but telling kids their parents were dead was not a job she ever wanted.

Fitz continued purring from Valen's arms, his tail twitching. The comforting rumble did not stop, even when Valen shifted suddenly, burying his chin on the silky ginger fur, mumbling incoherently, one fist curling near his mouth.

"He's a turian, Shepard. They're tough," Dr. Greenwood remarked dismissively.

"I know that. But he's also a kid," Shepard had never considered what Dr. Greenwood's feelings about non-humans were—though more and more she thought she got the picture.

"He's still a turian."

Biting down something rude about how kids should not be subjected to the prejudices of adults for other adults, Shepard wandered over, and gave the thin blanket, beneath which Valen nestled, a twitch that brought the pale blue material up to his shoulders.

Fitz the cat opened one brilliant eye, pausing his purring long enough to give a 'mrow'.

Shepard reached over, catching Fitz gently behind one of his ears, which made the cat close his eyes, and nestle more comfortably in is spot, his purr redoubling. "Forgiven me have you?" Her low tone did not carry over to Dr. Greenwood, and Fitz did not give any indication he had heard her.

Shepard did not begrudge Fritz opting to stay with Valen: after all, she knew what it was to be a frightened child – albeit not as young as Valen. A cat was a good thing to have when coping with crisis. Especially when it purred, as Fitz was doing, like a rusty motor.

Settling back in her sleeper pod, Shepard tried to force her mind to slow down, but failed. All her thoughts continued circling like buzzards over the bleak circumstances from which they had scooped the little turian. Sooner or later he'd find out his parents were dead, if they were on that ship. Shepard could not see why they would not be, for what sort of parent sent their child on a spaceship heading through the Attican Traverse? It was _dangerous_ out there. She was not even sure why a turian vessel was heading through the Traverse, though arguably, it was a free galaxy, and they could go where they liked; more or less.

Still, sooner or later he'd realize his parents weren't coming to get him, weren't following somehow, to appear in a joyous reunion fit for the vids. It was a lesson no child should have to learn, Shepard shifted restlessly. That mother and father were only mortal, that they _couldn't_ always protect you from the crush of reality.

But at least for now he had the cat. She did not begrudge him that small comfort. She was glad Fitz had taken to the child. It would be several days before they reached the station where turian representatives would take Valen into custody. She wished she could have heard the conversation the Captain had with them, but at the same time was glad she had not. Doubtless they would have wanted to know why only the child survived. While Shepard tried to avoid gross generalizations, she had the feeling the implications of the conversation were along the lines of 'why didn't you save more than just the child? Why didn't you try harder to save the vessel?'

Not all nonhumans were like that, but a good number. Not that humans were free of the exact same mindsets; look at Dr. Greenwood.

Shepard tried to settle again, but sleep did not come creeping around the edges of her mind, prowling like some wild beast just outside a ring of firelight.

The image of Valen cuddling the cat as he slept flickered across her mind, like the quavering light of a candle in a dark room, sending dark shadows flickering away from it, but not driving them off. There was a word, she decided, for the scene of cat and child. A word for the state of mind still clinging to hope that mother and father would appear through the medbay doors before long, a word for the belief that everything would be all right, given enough time.

Naiveté was not the word. In fact, it was all wrong.

Thinking helped drive away the thoughts which insisted on buzzing like aggravating insects. If not naiveté, then what?

Fitz's purr sounded in the recesses of Shepard's mind. Now freeing itself of discordant, jangling thoughts which keeping her awake, Shepard found herself relaxing as she searched through rumination for fine distinction, her mind slowly relaxing into soft malleability preceding sleep.

Innocence. That was the word for a sleeping child and a purring cat, caught in the moment before the hammer of reality shattered childhood, sending fragments of dreams and innocent faith in things that were only mortal spinning into the darkness of adulthood like so many stars to flicker and die out.

Cloak-like darkness of depressing thoughts closed around Shepard's mind.


	36. Abandoned

Shepard sat at a workstation after her shift, silent and focused. The general aura she cast indicated clearly she did not want anyone to talk to her, did not want anyone to look at her, did not want anything except to be left completely and totally alone. Like she already was. Her eyes burned as she worked steadily, almost obsessively, her pale face rendered ghastly by the light of the screen.

For once, Fitzpatrick the cat was not lying beneath her chair sleeping or waiting for her to finish her work and pay him some attention.

Shepard's mouth thinned, trying to stop her eyes from stinging. It wound up a pointless exercise.

Valen, the rescued turian child, behaved beautifully for the human crew, right up until the time the turian delegates met with the Captain to take the child into custody. Valen and Fitz began to panic: Valen at losing the cat, the cat at being separated from the child.

Shepard knew Fitz belonged to a turian originally. She never expected him to want to leave the _Midway…_leaveher. Her own words to Arbor as she stood, watching Fitz and Valen scream, echoed loudly in her head, amplified and reverberating in the vast emptiness she sought to fill with preparatory study.

_Let him take the cat!_ Then she fled, unable to stand the noise, or the wail inside her at losing Fitz. A sense of hopeless abandonment swelled over her, enveloping her until her eyes slid out of focus, no longer interpreting the squiggles on the interface as writing. Vital information.

The cat was not only a reminder of a dead best friend; he eased the gaping hole in her soul left by too many deaths of too many people close to her. A cat could not replace _people_, but it could ease the void of loss.

Eight standard hours ago, Fitz had left in Valen's arms, eyeing everyone warningly. As she watched over the security channel, her eyes blurred with tears, which she immediately rubbed away with the palm of her hand.

She repeated the gesture now. She was a marine, dammit! If she didn't start acting like one, she could count on people coming over to chew her out about being tough. Or worse, try to 'make her feel better'. The brutal correction for her own failings did nothing to ease the tears, but stubbornness kept them within the confines of her eyes.

So stupid, she snarled to herself, keying down several lines of text, poking the interface harder than she needed to, getting so worked up over a cat. A _cat_ for crying out loud. She wished she had not thought the word 'crying'; it made her eyes sting worse.

She could get another cat, though she doubted it would be accorded mascot status as Fitz had. No, she _couldn't _get another cat. Why bother when she wasn't in port for more than a few weeks in a year? It wouldn't be fair to the cat, she'd have to find someone to look after it while she couldn't…she might as well buy it for someone else.

Her throat tightened as she stopped paying attention to the interface again, absently chewing on her tongue. The trouble caused by letting the cat go to someone else—someone who genuinely needed the creature's comfort—made Shepard seriously doubt her career choice. Not that she could change paths now, the Alliance was what she knew, all she knew. But her apparent lack of fortitude and toughness made her doubt, and the empty echoing hollow where Fitz had once purred in her soul lent extra strength to dark depressing thoughts.

The analytical functions of her brain seemed frozen in the aftermath of losing the one creature she really connected with. She worked with the rest of the crew, worked well with some of them…but she could not bring herself to call them friends. They were business partners, acquaintances at best, not _friends_. Not like O'Conner. Not like Fitz. Not like any of her dead friends on Mindoir.

Shepard slouched further in her chair, letting the armrests take her elbows, flaying her thumbs as she did so. So much death. So much _loss_. Part of her wondered if she shouldn't go through the medical system to see if they could do anything about this, but the practical part of her operating in the background demanded an answer for: what can they do about it?

Any of the popularly prescribed drugs for managing psychological conditions would bounce her out of the N-program faster than she could blink. She'd passed the initial physical which meant _consideration_ for entry _only_, but if they got one hint, one scrap of evidence there was something wrong with her that would make her unable to function they'd bounce her out of the program. Ns were expensive, after all. No one wanted them to turn out defective.

No, she couldn't take that—especially not today, on top of everything else.

Nevertheless, as Shepard bullied her brain into retaining the information she read on the bright interface, she could not stop the feeling of abandonment sinking into her skin like soft rain into dry ground. This was not the empty loss of someone near her killed. This was the feeling of _being abandoned_. As hard as she tried, she could not think of it any other way, despite what the logical or compassionate parts of her argued.

She _needed_ the cat.

She also needed, she thought savagely, to advance, which meant abandoning the pity party in hopes of getting some real work done.

The harsh words pulled her to task, but did nothing about the burning in her eyes.

No, she had had enough. Enough loss…so she would not leave herself open to it, ever again. Friends she might have, but never a best friend, a sister-in-arms. Comrades she might have, but no man could hope for more than that.

It was an empty life. A life empty, but for service.


	37. Give Up

Shepard sat in the screening room, hating the man behind the desk almost as much as she hated any live batarian that presented itself before her eyes. He was an egghead, which, coming from a self-proclaimed geek-nerd, was a real slam. Geek-nerds could function in society, or in the face of harsh realities in real life. Eggheads needed carefully monitored environments, predictable stimuli. They couldn't think outside their beloved white, featureless box.

It was why they usually wound up asking people how they _felt_.

Which was why so many people hated them.

Right now, he was paying more attention the datapad than to her.

"What do you mean?" Her voice came out level, but on the inside she felt like doing nothing so much as hissing and spitting. Making a scene, because she heard perfectly well what he said_. _

_I don't think you're suitable. _

Well, here was to people who could _think_, but Shepard had no intention of letting them turn her application for initial evaluation away. Not someone who couldn't shoot to save his life. Not someone who'd probably never served on an Alliance frigate out in the Traverse, or on the Verge, shooting at or being shot at by who knew what kind of troublemakers several times a week.

So what if she had not distinguished herself in basic? She had meant to keep a low profile, until she turned the magic age of eighteen. But now, it was different. She was legal, whatever else she was. She did not need to worry about keeping herself off the radar, lest someone spot some inconsistency that might betray her – never mind the lack of documentation. She had no reason to worry about personal safety, all the people who cared were either dead, or out of her life completely.

Which, she thought grimly, was why she would succeed where others might fail. She had nothing to lose except her life. She did not _want_ to die, but if she did at least have the consolation the people who had gone on before her would be waiting.

One or two would be waiting to smack her upside the head for begin careless.

"I said, and I shall translate it into smaller sords," the interviewer declared patronizingly, "_give up_."

"_No_." What would he say to _that_?

"Private Shepard…"

"Space that! If you've got a real reason to keep me out, then spit it out. Right now, it's just _your opinion_. Your opinion is noted. Let's get down to the varren killing." A colonial phrase, but perhaps it would have the right effect.

"Fine. If you're so eager to taste disappointment…"

"I don't give up." Shepard pinned him with a vivid-eyed glare.

He did not pay any attention to this interruption, or the nearly homicidal look Shepard gave him.

Typical egghead.

"…then who am I to try and protect you from it? But I must say, I've had far better than you turn up for consideration, and many of them take the very good advice I've just offered you."

"Giving up never made an N7 out of anyone." Anger pounded in her ears, the sort of righteous indignation that had gotten her through quite a bit in life. "Giving up makes me an army puke who missed her true calling." Missed her calling, and enlisted with the marines. Shepard refused to accept this as a possibility. She was a marine, and proud of it.

Before O'Conner's finding a sweetheart, and before her death, they had kicked around the idea of getting screened for the N program. The memory stiffened her resolve that 'give up' was behavior unbecoming, not to be considered.

The interviewer sighed, waving Shepard along, after handing her a datapad. "I did warn you, Shepard: give up. There's no shame in it."

Shepard took the datapad, lips pursed, and shut the door firmly behind her. She could not congratulate herself for restraint in not explaining a few facts about marines in general to the egghead. He might understand words with six syllables, but the facts she wanted to explain were probably out of his reach.

She felt a stab of pity for those condemned to exist as eggheads, a stab of pity quickly eaten up by the smoldering embers of irritation, amassed over the course of the afternoon.

Give up indeed. It never occurred to Shepard, in the mires of indignation, that the first test for a potential candidate had just occurred. It did not occur to her either, that she had passed.

…

'Give up' seemed to be the mantra for the instructors weeding out the perspective N-operatives. She heard it each day, every day, seven days a week. Heard it until she could hear it in her sleep.

Every time the two hated words came up, her teeth clenched, eyes narrowed, and she found herself doing whatever it took to fling defiance in the face of whoever said it. She knew what they were doing, weeding out those without the aptitude, without the drive, without the self-sufficiency to ignore superiors telling them day in, day out, _just give up. Give up. Go home. _

An operator should be used to hearing the words. The words were just those: words. Words with no more meaning than 'peat', bullshit, or spork. The words 'give up' should not even be in the successful N's vocabulary.

So Shepard knuckled down, doing much the same thing she had done in high school, albeit on a more mature level. Proving other people _wrong_. She might not be right, but if she could not be right, neither should _they_.

Of course, staying angry took too much energy, and many nights in the month-long screening left her thinking that perhaps they had a point. After day fifteen, it was easier to dismiss this. She had already gotten halfway through, it would be such a waste to just give up now.

Not to mention it would prove those sadistic instructors right.

And she did not want them to be right.


	38. I Can't

Shepard sat on the examination table, arm in a sling, her expression pale as the doctor looked at her speculatively. Two days before she had come in, guided by an instructor, struggling not to show she was in pain. A training accident, hardly life threatening, but certainly painful. A toggle pulled loose from the climbing rig unexpectedly, snapping back to slammed first into her collarbone, then jerking her around as the rig failed.

It would have been worse if she had not displayed enough presence of mind to worry about her safety rather than the equipment. Rather than panic, as many would have done, she had simply cut herself loose of the harness, which had dropped her some distance to slam into the unforgiving ground.

The doctor could not say so, of course, but given the fact she had not broken any bones in her ankle or legs indicated she had remembered further training, this lesson from basic, how to fall. The days of parachutists might be fairly well over, but the parachute landing fall still retained uses, and was still widely taught.

The general display of presence of mind in a situation which should not have occurred would probably get her through the rest of the screening. They wanted people who could react well to danger, to the unexpected. She certainly had.

But that was not the issue, really. "You know anything about physiology, Shepard?"

"I know where to put bullets to make a guy go down. That count?"

The doctor got up from his chair, turning on the display screen on the wall. "These are the digital scans of your shoulder. You've got fractures in your left collar bone, which we've attended."

Shepard nodded. Corrected or not, it still hurt, and the bones still needed time to finish healing. The advances in modern medicine over the last hundred years could not heal bones overnight. "Am I clear for duty?"

"Not yet – not until the bones have had a couple days…"

"A couple days…_doc_!" Shepard couldn't stop the stunned protest. "If…I'll _wash out_!" Only twelve days to go! She couldn't give up, she _couldn't_! Not even on medical grounds! She could get injuries like that slipping and falling on a frozen puddle! It wasn't that bad!

Shepard almost did not hear the next words, trying to counter the horrible truth.

"I would suggest you bow out, on medical reasons…and try again next evolution…"

"I can't!" What was the point of putting all that time off the _SSV Midway_ down the tubes, only to have to do it again? She missed living shipside.

"Shepard…"

"No! It's not…we're almost done with the extreme boot camp stuff…it'll be divvying up into specializations next week! Aptitudes assessments! I'm…I'm a geek! I do cool stuff with an omni-tool!" She already knew her skills lay with her shotgun, and with her omni-tool.

"Shepard, you've got another five days before they start making those decisions. Is it worth risking further damage to your shoulder?"

"Then hop me up on stims and painkillers!" Shepard's distress at the thought of having to start all over, to waste the pain, frustration, and burning determination was like having a bucket of cold water dumped over her head.

"Shepard…not only would that be irresponsible of me, it wouldn't help you. You'd only hurt yourself, because you couldn't feel the pain to let you know you were pushing it. I know you hear this all the time, but really, there's no shame in backing about now. I can write a note to be attached to your file…"

"I can't do that! I _can't_!" Shepard shook her head. "They work so hard to weed out the weak! I'm not sure I can handle another thirty days of people telling me 'you can't, you can't, just give up'! I've worked too _hard_!" Shepard took a deep breath, her head beginning to ache with stress. "Let just…just discuss other options. I'm not washing out. I'm not quitting_. _I _can't_."

"Why not?"

"Guess I'm just dumb that way. Typical marine. I can't quit, and that's the end of it. Let's talk options."

The doctor sighed. He hated arguing with those most likely to earn the N. He rarely met what he would call stupid Ns, but they were hardheaded when they put their minds to it. Some days he felt as though all he could get out of them was name, rank and serial number, and more often not even that.

That was not all that had his attention, though.

"Shepard…"

"Doc…" Shepard stood up, peeling the sling off. "I will find a way. It's not a life threatening, or limb threatening injury."

"Unless you reinjure."

"I won't." Shepard shook her head, teeth clenched in determination.

"If a fluke accident broke your bones in the first place…"

"The laws of probability state it's unlikely to happen the same way to the same person again." Shepard found the counterargument waiting for her, like a fresh magazine at the shooting range.

The doctor sat back, frowning. Yes, it was important to weed out those who did not meet the criteria needed for N-class operatives. However, the conditioning of refusing to give up, because that was what 'they' wanted you to do was, as the screenings progressed, getting more and more troublesome. It was as if the candidates thought the medical team was a part of the plot to weed them out, when in fact, they weren't.

Cultivated paranoia, that was what it was.

With another sigh the doctor looked at Shepard's file. More disturbing and surprising than her persistence that this was a minor injury, something she could work around, was the simple fact that whatever her file said to the contrary, the growth plate in the digital imaging was not consistent with a twenty-year-old woman. Which meant had she lied about her age to get in. Meaning he had the unpleasant task of forwarding this information.

He hated being caught between a N and a hard place.


	39. Silence

Shepard's fingers worked at lightning speed, her omni-tool beeping, the lights on the display flashing as she worked. The instructor for this aptitude and placement test noticed her only because, of all those finish their first level of N-training (which equated to a sort of special ops basic), she was the quietest.

Most would swear at the problem by now. Not that they _could_ solve it, but they did not know that.

Looking closer at the thin face, the calm aura of determination which seemed to resonate around her in palpable form, the instructor found himself not so sure of this. If she knew the problem was unsolvable at her level, it would account for the unusual show of calm.

This test not 'what can you do', or 'what do you know', it was 'how do you cope, when you don't know what to do'. She was either crazy, or on a very even keel.

He pulled up her file, words jumping out at him. _Mindoir_. _No living relatives. Psychological risk factor: 7. _

That had slowly downgraded from ten. For her it would never drop below a five. It would keep her out of some of the very senior positions. He'd be very surprised it she made it to service chief, let alone any further. Psychological dependability was something screened for.

As she got older, the likelihood of a psychological break would increase, or so the eggheads said. Fortunately Ns allowed more leeway for oddity.

Shepard continued working in silence, and the instructor gave up his mental assessment.

Shepard hunched over her omni-tool, but was not working on the problem. She _recognized_ it, but did not remember how to solve it. Not straight out, anyway. So she remained staunchly silent as she tried to work _around_ it. Listening to the other students swearing under their breaths (or sometimes more audibly), she blocked it out.

She felt the instructor eyeing her, aware she was the odd one out. Fortunately this was, to her, a state of normalcy so she thought nothing of it. With a deep breath she forced herself not to swear at the problem out of habit. No problem presented by an instructor was _ever_ solved by swearing at it.

Or kicking it.

But both had psychological benefits, especially when dealing with tractors. Shepard paused her work for a moment. Maybe she ought to have gone into vehicular maintenance, where she could kick and swear however she liked when a rover refused to cooperate.

The impulsive thought vanished, like a wrinkle tugged out of a tablecloth. Rovers were good, but she was a nerd at heart. A nerd with a gun—so 'Infiltrator School' it was.

Shepard looked up from her omni-tool after her third attempt to go around the problem failed. Leaning on her desk, jiggling her foot, she gazed at the whiteboard, containing the particulars of the problem the instructor set for them. There had to be an easier way to go around a problem than to…

If you can't go around, go over it.

Shepard hunched over, her taps on her omni-tool redoubling, aware her time in which to make an impression was limited. Even in a room so full of murmured words, like the hum of aggravated bees, a silence began to press on her eardrums as all sound was blocked, so all energy and resources usually reserved to translate sound into meaning cut off. Who cared what Lancaster was calling his omni-tool…or the instructor?

Shepard's omni-tool began to flash and whir as she worked. The little lamp sitting upon the instructor's desk, an old-fashioned thing with a bulb and needing to tap into an electrical socket, shone softly. Shepard glanced up at it. Hacking into the building, getting past all the firewalls protecting the lamp was too hard, she had no skill that high as yet.

But a marine would _adapt, improvise, overcome_.

There was no way she would let a _lamp_ triumph over _her_.

Shepard looked away from the glowing lamp, half-smiling to herself, as many of the others let themselves become worked up. Perhaps _that_ was the object of the lesson, learning to control annoyance so it did not edge out logic and reason—or make your work sloppy.

"Five minutes," the instructor noted placidly.

Shepard nodded once, looking back down at her omni-tool. She could do this in five minutes, but only if she held her mouth right, as the saying went.

Four minutes. Shepard grit her teeth. The class fell silent, whispered words vanishing like smoke on the wind.

Three minutes. Her muscles tensed, as though preparing for a blow, or a jump from a high place.

Two minutes. _Come on…_work!

One minute. She hated countdowns, hated them with a passion—thank goodness this one was only in her head.

Thirty seconds…

In the silence, the lamp on the desk dimmed, but did not go out. The instructor looked over at it. A moment later the lamp gave a fizzling sound and the tungsten filament in the bulb suddenly gave out.

Shepard smiled. A story from some unremembered individual echoed in her ears, about an old-fashioned fan and light setup—with real light bulbs like this lamp—and how, if you pulled the fan pull chain while the light was _on….light bulbs would blow out. _

Shepard understood enough about electrical wiring to know she could trip the generators—down in the basement, and unguarded—to cause a power spike—a spike which blew the light bulb, but left the heavy-endurance equipment of the facility alone.

Things here had to be heavy endurance, with all the students doing strange things to or with it. It did not, as the exercise demanded, 'turn off the light', but now there was no light to turn off.

The class gaped; the instructor did not. "All right, who did it?"

Shepard stood up. "Shepard, Jalissa A."

The instructor nodded. "You owe me a new light bulb, recruit."

Out of the silence came a cheeky, "Aye-aye."


	40. Eyes

Shepard could no more have missed the Commander walking out of the NEX than ignore flashing red emergency lights, and a klaxon calling her to her action station. Even less likely was not recognizing the now-Commander Ludmilla Robbins. Sure enough, it was Robbins striding briskly towards the doors. Shepard saluted crisply, wondering if she still looked like the same frightened girl who'd left teeth marks in Robbins' glove upon rescue.

Robbins saw the corporal snap to, then did a double take as she saluted back. Robbins slowed her walk, gazing at the corporal's eyes. It wasn't _possible_ for _her_ to be here! It wasn't possible for her to be a corporal, either…unless she had both shown extreme aptitude. And there was the N patch on her uniform.

But eyes didn't lie, and the little slip of Mindoiran survivor had had distinctive eyes: a shade neither blue, nor green, but startlingly luminous in artificial light. Especially when popping with terror, or overwhelmed by circumstances beyond her so-limited control.

"Shepard. Jalissa Shepard." Robbins had gone back to check on the girl at the station when the ship came back through, but to her surprise, the girl had vanished, almost without a trace. Only a polite note of thanks she was not sure the then-Lieutenant would ever get.

"Commander Robbins." Shepard's mouth twitched to a smile, pleased to be recognized.

"Well, look at you. Where've you been hiding out?"

"_SSV Midway_, ma'am. Ran away from a safe place and joined the marines." An unexpected shift of unease made Shepard's smile die. Who knew, after years of not seeing each other, how much Robbins' opinion would mean. Shepard had never given it thought, until now, how much the opinion of the woman who had saved her life would mean.

Shepard did not know Robbins well, but all the same she knew Robbins would expect a life she saved to be _lived_, to the fullest extent without fear and with focus on something that mattered. Not spent rotting somewhere in misery and self-sympathy. No, no one ever said things like that, but then again, Shepard found it a very reasonable thing to ask: do something with your life, now that it's safe.

Of course, some would argue letting other people shoot at her was not a good way to spend a life saved, but the way Shepard saw it, she was in the same business as the Commander: fighting the enemy. Sometimes she saved lives. Still, it was a very good way to spend a saved life. A bit lonely sometimes, a lot risky, but good.

Robbins continued regarding Shepard. The woman before her so little resembled the terrified girl scooped up from the Mindoiran wilderness it was almost surprising. The face still had hollows beneath the cheeks, the dark circles still showed, but there was strength there, now, and experience. Determination. "You hardly look like the kid I knew, Shepard."

"I've worked at it, ma'am." Shepard almost beamed at the note of approval.

"I can see that. How far into the N Program are you?"

Shepard straightened, repressing a very smug look. "Two years, I'm an N1. It's getting on time for the advancement screenings. I hope to move up another step, when the time comes." Shepard did not believe it _possible_ for her to fail the screenings. She might publicly acknowledge the possibility, but deep down, she knew she would pass with flying colors. It was not arrogance, it was competence.

"Walk with me." Shepard fell into step with Robbins, marveling at how ironic life was.

Normally, Robbins would not have stood around chatting. However, between the situation in which she'd found the girl, the girl's shattered state, and those memories sharply contrasting with the woman walking confidently alongside her, Robbins could not help feeling curious. It was good to see Shepard had not, at any rate, simply imploded. A lot of survivors, a lot of soldiers who had tried to stop the raid had committed suicide.

Robbins was one of the few people to know, that of the four children transferred to the station after Mindoir, Shepard was the only one still alive: the one-in-five chance of adversity triggering success. "So, what brings you out here?"

Shepard did not want to lie. "Our CO is retiring, and the _Midway's_ getting its five year once-over. So I'm studying for the advancements." What she did _not_ mention was that she was meandering her way back from a meeting of reprimand. The higher-ups slapped her on the wrist for lying about her age, but said no more. They were already pumping credits into her as a special operator; she was too expensive to throw away.

She also suspected it was too much trouble to track down the recruiter who let her in.

Shepard's eyes looked less luminously teal as she and the Commander stepped out into the sunlight, both pulling their covers on.

"Good to see you're holding up, Shepard."

Shepard grinned, her teeth glinting in the sunlight. "Thank you, ma'am."

Robbins knew Shepard meant 'thanks' for more than just the pleasantries. It was like talking to, looking at a whole new person, nothing left of the terrified girl but hollow cheeks and those startling eyes. She did not need a great deal of empathy to see respect reflected back at her, the trust of a child that had not died out in the intervening years. A sort of latent loyalty.

Shepard had not realized how much of an example Robbins had set in her life, how hard she had worked to follow that example, to emulate the icon her sixteen-year-old mind had created from one marine lieutenant until they were face-to-face.

Robbins hardly seemed to have changed since Shepard last saw her. Still tough, still inspiring confidence in others, a real, loyalty-inspiring _leader. _The kind of boss who was tough, but not out of spite.

Strange how you could see one thing under stress, then see it again years later and find it unchanged.


	41. Expectations

Shepard's stomach quivered with anxious expectation as she approached her new posting, the _SSV El Alamein_, based out ofArcturus Station. With a shuffling of _Midway's _command structure, and the retirement of the commanding officer, Shepard was not the only one transferred to a new crew. Some complained quietly about the breaking up the team, but Shepard was not one of them. This was a golden opportunity. Her only gloomy thought was that O'Conner wouldn't be there to share the adventure, though Shepard used that word only loosely, even within her own mind.

This was a job, not an adventure. Some said it was a calling; they were soldiers, not 'adventuring hero-types'.

"_State you name and business,_" the voice crackled over the radio, the crisp command a sharp contrast from Mission Coordinator Jefferson's drawl.

"Corporal J. Shepard, transferring to _SSV El Alamein_ from _SSV Midway_. Requesting permission to come aboard," Shepard addressed the airlock at large. Sometimes it was hard to tell where the communications array actually was.

After a few moments in which the speaker silently confirmed both the transfer and her orders, his voice crackled across the link again, "_Confirmed. Just a minute while we scrub you off, Corporal_._ Running d-con._"

Shepard squinted as the decontamination lasers passed over her, the hum of the process throbbing in her sinuses. She always hated this part of boarding, as the lights were not easy on the eyes; the vaguely chemical smell always made her nose twitch as though she had allergies. Someone had explained the reason for this at one point, but between the very technical wording and a complete lack of interest at the time, Shepard did not remember anything past a feeling of relief she managed to hide her own geek-nerd moments a little better.

Give her a piece of new tech to play with, and out came the nerd glasses and the technical jargon. Fortunately, her ability to use a shotgun efficiently helped balance this out. Besides, when a person had tech training, other people expected bursts of nerdlike behavior.

The door before her hissed as it unsealed and slid open, admitting her into the darker interior of the _El Alamein_. Green spots filtered across Shepard's vision, for a moment rendering her almost blind as the door closed and resealed behind her, blocking the sunny day outside.

As Shepard moved towards the bridge she realized Commander Robbins was not present, the station which she should have occupied was empty. "The Commander would like to brief you in private. This way," Shepard did not have time to catch the rank, but she recognized Maguire, both by voice and shape. Oddly enough, he met her expectations to the letter, still giving the impression of steadfast massiveness, like a bear on its hind legs.

After walking her to the next deck down, past the mess and billeting, Maguire finally stopped, and knocked on a door. "Chief Maguire. The Corporal's here to see you, Commander," he addressed the comm. panel by the door.

The door hissed open revealing Robbins leaning over a holographic display (modern charts and darts), the stylus in her hand as though she meant to draw notes on the layout. Robbins nodded as her eyes slid from Maguire down to Shepard. "Thank you, Chief."

"Ma'am." Maguire nodded then stepped aside, letting Shepard slip into the office. Due to the space limitations on a frigate, the office was about the size of a closet, though not enough to make Shepard begin to feel claustrophobic. She had never experienced either the claustrophobia the instructors in basic liked to cite as part of the space-faring experience, or the nearly agoraphobic experience of spacewalking.

"Corporal Shepard, reporting for duty, ma'am." Shepard saluted promptly.

Robbins rose to her feet, seeming to fill the entire small room, though this was due partly to Shepard's perceptions. Returning the salute Robbins nodded in a way Shepard knew meant—in officer's nonverbal—'at ease', so she relaxed obediently. "Welcome aboard."

"Thank you, ma'am."

"What do you know about the _El Alamein_ does?" Robbins immediately mental noted that Shepard was perceptive, not someone who missed much. It was a good skill to have, still a skill needing sharpening. Give it five years and Shepard could become a valuable NCO, provided she continued showing the leadership skills her file cited. Despite her exemplary record, Robbins knew Shepard's last CO was ROAD, and had not shown the slightest efficiency when it came to the resources of his troops.

The best he ever did was back Shepard's application to the N Program, but even then the indications were Shepard had launched an unrelenting campaign to get there in the first place. ROAD officers. They ought to stick to driving a desk, not commanding ships.

Shepard considered for a moment before answering. "The _El Alamein _is tasked with assisting the Alliance directive of maintaining a presence in the Attican Traverse. Her crew is tasked with supporting our allies when need arises, and providing security either A) by clearing up local trouble with the Terminus Systems or B) by preventing operations funded by said systems or other intergalactic troublemakers as is feasible or applicable, and often as possible."

Robbins did not smile at the slight deviation from the official manifest. Not everyone would have looked it up, much less committed it to memory. "That's right. Once we're finished here, you'll find Chief Maguire, he'll see to your clearances, and make sure you get into the system."

"Yes ma'am."

By the time she was dismissed, Shepard felt as though Robbins had interrogated her, looking for flaws. Her brain already turning into soupy mush within her skull, Shepard knew her expectations of Robbins the CO—as opposed to any other view of Robbins she had—was correct. A tough but fair leader. Shepard could feel the difference in command styles between here and the _Midway _as obviously as she could see the differences in the two frigates; _Midway _being a generation before the_ El Alamein. _


	42. Foreign

Corporal Shepard's first impression of her new home port, Arcturus Station, was not a good one. Arcturus might be a wonder of engineering and space-proof design, a benchmark in human expansion into deep space, but it still did not feel remotely natural. In fact, it was as foreign as _Mars_ to a Mindoiran, as the old saying went. She knew space stations, she spent a certain amount of time on them during any given year; it was part of being a spacer. Being here was not a novel experience. Far from it.

What _was_ novel was staying on the station or more than a day or a few hours. Taking the rapid transit _shuttle_—to the commissary, or walk down several hallways to get to the NEX for small household necessities—was novel.

No sky, no fresh air, no weather—just tubes and tunnels.

Taking note of the laundromat, the clinic, the racquetball courts all made her feel as though she were some sort of alien, foreign to the station, as she tried to remember which tubes ran where, which tunnels diverted from the main drags, where transit lines crisscrossed. Unfamiliarity made both she and the station foreigners to each other.

The nonsensical thought eased the not-quite culture shock. She would miss being able to go run outside, on real ground—but she hated being groundside to begin with. The semi-padded track down at MWR would suffice, even if it meant no weather and no wind.

The overhead lights, and lack of _scenery_ outside the windows of the station furthered her disorientation. How strange, and she paused as she carried her groceries back to her small apartment, shared with one of her shipmates, to look out into the vastness of infinity. Almost like space walking without the suit. Shepard would have rather died than admit she found the pull of space hypnosis incredibly strong.

Space on a station was at a premium, so the apartment was small, almost claustrophobic. And yet, unlike on a _planet _with real gravity, sky, and winds, the tight quarters gave a feeling of insulation, of safety. Like an egg yolk in the shell.

Shepard shifted her groceries more securely in her arms, knowing if O'Conner was still alive, there was no way she would have been able to make the trip to the commissary and back without being dragged to five or six other stops either for fun, or to satisfy O'Conner's irrepressible curiosity.

Maybe it would not be such a bad idea to follow O'Conner's example, and investigate this very foreign place. This was, after all, the heart of Fifth Fleet. The number of ships docked at the spaceport indicated a lot of traffic coming and going. She _thought_ she saw, at one point, an asari ship—but could not be sure. The Alliance was cautious about nonhumans, but not exactly insular. And the asari seemed to get along with everyone—more or less.

Shepard shook her head. Krogan, she could deal with. They were scary, though she would never admit it, but she could deal with them. Turians were intimidating, but she could lay claim to a similar reputation, being a marine. Asari were _weird_, and they made her uncomfortable. Too often she got the feeling they could hear her thoughts echoing around, just pick them right out of the air.

Which was silly. _Especially_ for a marine.

Shepard unlocked the apartment, unloading her purchases into the fridge. Lt. Evenstone, from stationside housing administration had, in the brief moments they spoke before she left Shepard to settle in, pointed out learning to live stationside was no more difficult than learning to live near the North Pole.

Shepard supposed this must mean something similar to getting used to month-long days and nights, and not to the perpetually cold weather. Though, now she thought of it, her feet were still cold. Spacer Syndrome struck again, but at least it was familiar, if a little uncomfortable. Uncomfortable and eased by thicker socks.

For a few moments, Shepard teetered in uncertainty, then grabbed her cover—Station Protocols demanded a cover while in the halls, or any place that, planetside, would be considered open air. Sleeping on a station always made her uncomfortable—something about drifting in space with only a manmade shell of who knew what kind of alloys between her and the great vacuum.

The long corridor, with its slightly rubbery flooring, led out of the housing blocks. Unlike groundside blocks, these were not stacked one atop another, accessed by stairwells and fire escapes every few meters. The only stairwells leading up were at the front of the housing block. The housing block reminded her very much of several pieces of corrugated cardboard stacked up, accessible by stairs at the open ends.

It was the closest simile she could find, and not a very good one.

But as foreign as the bustle of 'downtown Arcturus' was, the bustle retained the familiarity of any center of any base she ever saw. People coming and going. There were fewer children, fewer dependants. She saw no nonhumans, and wondered if the alien ship wasn't a trick of the light and darkness found in space.

"Excuse me! Corporal?"

Shepard stopped, turning sharply. A little private—barely eighteen form the look of her—saluted. "Yes?" Shepard returned the gesture.

"I was wondering, do you know which way to the NEX? I'm…"she looked around helplessly. "…lost."

Shepard repressed a smile. "You know where the O-Club is?" The private shook her head. "Okay, you're going to go up the street—walkway—until you see the O-Club, you can't miss it. Go left, away from the Club, you'll run into the NEX from there."

Listening to herself, Shepard had to repress another smile. Listen to her, talking as though she has always been here. As though nothing about this post was foreign to her. Maybe a base really was like any other base, with or without an atmosphere, a biosphere, or real ground underfoot.


	43. Keeping a Secret

Five years after Mindoir found Shepard finishing her N2 training evolution. It was more than basic—worse in some ways. The strain proved far less physical and more mental, particularly since she chose a split specialty, balancing combat and technological aspects.

But alone in a visitors' barracks on the anniversary of Mindoir—while everyone else was enjoying well-earned liberty—Shepard lay on her bunk, hands folded on her stomach. Beneath her pillow, as ever, was the pistol case with her pink satin dance slippers. She could no more leave it on the _SSV El Alamein _than she could forget her cover while out of doors.

It was possibly the biggest secret she had, with her age having lapsed past the magic number of eighteen.

Her classmates, some of whom she remembered vaguely from her first evolution, would have eyed her funny, had they known about the slippers. None of them really knew her and she preferred to keep it that way—partly out of the superstition that contact with her might get them killed.

The fear was, to her subconscious, not unjustified. Strangely enough, the crew of the _El Alamein_ seemed to her subconscious well equipped to look after themselves. She worried for her teammates when trouble started—but at the same time never thought herself a source of pure bad luck.

Perhaps, she mused, looking at the bottom of the top bunk, she worried more about strangers because she did not know their full range of abilities. You learned the range of your shipmates. You had to. And Commander Robbins was the sort of person who seemed above any and all superstitions, and could hold those held by her crew at bay.

Murphy of Murphy's Law had a staunch opponent in Robbins.

Shepard's own reputation for precision, for get things done right left people with mixed impressions. Namely that she was a nose to the grindstone sort, with no sense of humor, no need for fun. Someone who simply hung herself on a charging rack at night, and unhooked herself the next morning, repowered and ready to go.

They would be floored to know she once wanted to be a dancer. To be a farmer. To live the life of a small community, where everyone knew everyone by their first name, where the troubles on the scale seen by large cities had yet to make themselves prevalent.

But her biggest secret remained how deeply _hurt_ she still felt, between Mindoir and O'Conner's death. Most people thought she was over Mindoir, almost callously over it for she never discussed it except with a polite but frosty rejection to the topic.

The truth was that the memories of those buried there were sacred. She did not want just anyone pawing through them, like pictures in a magazine. She _missed_ her family, but she could admit she felt it a little less keenly each time this day lapsed by during the march of years.

If she only had a holo of them, some reminder of them that did not exist only in her mind, which could keep their faces from dimming as time wore on. Some token she could tuck safely away with her pink satin dreams.

Shepard rolled onto her side, one hand creeping beneath her pillow to touch the pistol case. It was stupid, hauling this thing around like a child afraid of the dark, dragging around a battered, well-worn bear by the neck. The faces of her own small collection of stuffed bears, seating on a shelf to brightened a dark corner of her childhood room, gazed out at her from her mind's eye, a little femininity in a room full of things that could be 'fixied on'.

Nothing like that now. She did not even feel the need to purchase a few to put in her apartment. Whimsy died when the homestead burned. Would her family even recognize her now, if they were to meet on the street? No doubt they, like O'Conner, looked down from the Great Hereafter, but probably not with the same air of watching a soap opera.

She clipped this thought—the fear of being a disappointment was too much today. Alone in the barracks, she permitted herself to curl up, bowing her chin almost to her collarbones, wrapping her arms around her knees before freeing one as her shoulder protested the odd position.

No, she shook her head as she closed her eyes. The biggest secrets she kept now were her fears. She ought to lock _those_ up with her shattered dreams. Weren't those sorts of preying fears as dangerous as the sharp edges of broken dreams? As bitter as the ashes of a childhood up in flames?

Once again she stopped her own thoughts. They would help no one, least of all herself. All she could do was move forward, as she'd done so far. She was not just Jalissa Shepard, high school student anymore.

She was Corporal J. A. Shepard, N1—soon to be N2—Infiltrator.

Shepard uncurled, like a crumpled piece of paper cast to the floor. This day, of all the days in the year, made her wonder if she was growing scales to protect herself, like a turian—looking weird on the outside, but still possessing a soul, still maintaining who she was at a core which remained unchanged. Or was she really _becoming_ someone else—someone else through and through?

She wished she could drink like the others, that there was some point in going down to some dive bar. There were no answers at the bottom of a bottle, she knew it, however much she wished it were otherwise.

But at least the booze would keep her from _thinking_, mulling things over on a quiet weekend night. As the days of the week slipped away the resurfaced pain, fear, and trouble would slip away again as well, a leviathan vanishing beneath the waves to rear up another day. A secret, many-headed foe only she could battle.


	44. Obsession

Commander Ludmilla Robbins watched Shepard sleeping via the monitors in the medbay room, her eyebrows knit together in a mix of anger and disappointment. _How_ had she missed this hubris of Shepard's? Yes, she knew Shepard hated batarians, hated them like mildew.

Only now did the truth become clear, and it grieved the older soldier. Shepard adept, with something like an affinity for fighting batarians, or any other sort of slaver-scum. They couldn't make her panic, in fact, the more batarians present, the calmer Shepard was, which kept the men with her calm as well.

Now, Shepard had just tipped her hand, exposing that fatal flaw: she might not risk her men to fulfill a vendetta usually hidden beneath the mask of duty, but Shepard not mind getting herself killed if she felt there was no other way to _stop_ the enemy.

But only when facing her personal enemies.

Robbins covered her eyes with one hand. What had she expected?She _knew_ Shepard had history there, knew Shepard had no trouble in eliminating them almost mechanically. Shepard seemed not to register them as sentients, more like malfunctioning mechs to be put down.

How could she have missed this? Hatred was usually visible…but Shepard's always had been. Robbins had not wanted to see it, wanted to believe Shepard had it controlled, that Shepard's search to hurt those who had hurt her was contained. She knew Shepard seemed to disconnect when the shooting started, how the girl's tone went deadly calm, as if the usual life inside of her suddenly snuffed out, leaving only smoke and darkness?

The one problem with a fantastic solider: an obsession.

An obsession, no less, that caused Shepard to think, for who knew what reason, the only way to get her men out was to set them running. That the only way to keep the batarians from pursuing was to blow the building, as planned…with herself still in the bunker.

From the stories the other marines told, the guesstimated enemy numbers were all wrong, they were overwhelmed. Shepard made sure the charges were set, then orchestrated the retreat. And once her team was running, she fell behind for reason best known to herself.

The only consoling fact was Shepard had taken pains to find a safe spot to hide before she activated the detonation sequence, which at least proved she wasn't suicidal.

Just obsessed with making the batarians as a whole pay for one of the greatest raids they could lay claim to.

Her obsession was sneaky; Robbins frowned at the still-unconscious Shepard. Sneaky and subtle, it never showed up until Shepard was in a fight. Specifically triggered or not, it still made Shepard unstable. Angry, obsessive and unstable. Three things Robbins did not want to hear about the newly-promoted service chief. Too many people mistook stupidity for courage, and obsession for dedication. It was the only reason no one was asking why Shepard took the risks she did—though again, never at the cost of her unit.

It should have encouraged Robbins, but the fact remained she either had to break Shepard's obsession, or decide what action to take. Shepard couldn't stay in the Traverse if she was willing to do such stupid things for the sake of a grudge, no matter how deeply rooted.

With her commander's hat on, Robbins could not afford to argue the cause of sympathy. Sympathy had let it get this far, and Robbins knew, deep down, part of the reason Shepard was so out of shape was her fault: she failed to catch it, failed to correct it, which made it her problem as well.

She, as an officer, fundamentally knew better_. _

Shepard, as an N, certainly knew better. She knew she had a grudge, and she kept it hidden most of the time, didn't let it interfere with her day to day duties.

Except when those day to day duties involved four-eyed uglies.

No, she still knew Shepard—give the kid a choice, and she'd make one and stick with it. However, the choice involved banking on a lot of iffy things, things which would weigh against Shepard's determination to teach the batarians which side of the Traverse they were allowed to exist on, an on which side they would get themselves peppered with shot.

Shepard was dedicated to the Alliance. She was dedicated to her commanding officer. Loyalty never came into question with Shepard. Robbins was not sure she wanted to play the 'where do your loyalties lie, with the Alliance or with a grudge?' card.

On the other hand, she certainly wasn't going to pull punches, if it meant letting Shepard's private vendetta swallow her up. The girl had promise, it became clearer as time went on. If Robbins could find a way to shift the focus of obsession from fighting batarians to advancing within the Alliance—something Shepard was driven to do anyway—that might fix the problem.

But how to lever it? What was the fulcrum?

Robbins did not find an answer for that, as she watched Shepard slowly come to. Taking her hat off the table, Robbins committed herself: best to deliver this lesson while Shepard still hurt enough to consider perhaps backing off a bit.

Shepard would need to back off more than a bit, if she wanted to stay on the _El Alamein_. That would put pressure on Shepard to prioritize, and Shepard was the type who would sort herself out, if she had the proper motivation to do so.

Shepard loved life on the _El Alamein_. Shepard might just abandon her vendetta—or fight to let it go, Robbins did not expect it to simply go away over night—if she thought she might be cut loose, sent somewhere else. Somewhere quieter, where her obsession could hopefully smolder and die.

Shepard did not need it to survive. She derived reasons to live from her work within the Alliance, from pursuing excellence and applying that excellence.

Robbins hoped her logic was sound.


	45. Two Roads

Shepard ached. She ached so badly she could not tell where the pain was worst, simply that it _was_, and the disapproving look the thin-lipped CO Robbins was giving her only made it worse. Outside the suite in the medbay, a doctor's shadow hovered with Shepard's next dose of painkillers, a dose Robbins' was discouraging with her presence.

"You're either going to cut ties with this batarian fixation you've got, or you're going to cut ties with the _El Alamein_. I won't wait for this vendetta to start costing other peoples' lives. They always do, in the end."

After she said her piece, Robbins continued glowering at Shepard, who watched back, pain keeping her from answering. They were not gentle, she thought, when they took her breathing tube out, and it felt as though her vocal cords were ruined for life.

Robbins didn't know the remote detonator was _faulty—_faulty to the point she had no _choice_ but to detonate short-range. She was the only one who realized…

_But you could have run, and requested an airstrike instead. They were standing by, dipshit, and you knew it. _That's_ why she's pissed_.

Shepard knew it was more than just a stupid risk. Even if she could have justified herself, the ice behind Robbins' eyes told her plainly the batarian fixation had reached the point where it could no longer be overlooked.

"Is it really so important for you to kill batarians?" Robbins demanded darkly.

If it meant the likelihood of a second Mindoir went down…

Shepard jerked her chin once, then closed her eyes, groaning softly as her head seemed to slam against the inside of her skull, then fall back into place painfully. Didn't anyone understand?

"You damn jarhead." Turning on her heel, Robbins stalked out.

Shepard stared after her. The name was applied to every marine to the point it lost all meaning, it was just another way to say 'hey, you in the uniform'. But the way Robbins had said it…it felt like a slap.

_You're either going to cut ties with this batarian fixation you've got, or you're going to cut ties with the _El Alamein_._

Robbins didn't make threats, she gave ultimatums. 

Cold filled Shepard's stomach as the medtech entered the room, and gave the next dose of painkillers. Shepard wanted desperately to think, but remained unable to, not with the mind-hazing drugs pouring into her veins.

_I won't wait for this vendetta to start costing other peoples' lives. _

It wouldn't. How could Robbins even _think _she would risk lives unnecessarily, for something so petty as a personal grudge? No vendetta was worth the lives of the men she, Shepard, had to lead, for lead she did, officially or unofficially. Was it worth her own life? No, not unless there was no other choice…

…but she had _had_ another choice, and not gone with it. The airstrike would have set off the explosives. Her head began to ache worse, through the drugs.

Shepard closed her eyes. They stung, but as ever, no tears fell.

_Obsession_.

Wasn't that such a strong word? Couldn't it even be applied to her will to advance?

_Yes,_ her inner devil's advocate agreed sardonically, _but you're not doing _stupid shit_ to get promoted, now are you? You do stupid shit to fight the enemy, _your_ enemy. And now, you're getting sloppy. Not good. Not good at all. _

Shepard struggling like a drowning woman clutching a life preserver to hold onto logic and clear thought. It was only with great difficulty that she continued her inner argument.

Batarians and the _El Alamein_ were almost synonymous—most trouble happened in the Verge and the Traverse, and a lot of the time the four-eyed freaks…

Well. That proved Robbins' point. She did not make a habit of slamming non-human races, but she certainly spared no tongue lashing when she had to think about…

…batarians…

The effort involved of referring to them by their racial title without any colorful adjectives confirmed something Shepard had willfully ignored up until this point.

She could not lie to Robbins. Not just because the woman had a nose for untruthfulness, but because she respected the Commander that much. Tough but fair: Robbins had given her a _choice_, instead of simply bouncing her to a desk somewhere.

A phrase of poetry, half-remembered from her high school days flittered across her softening brain.

_Two roads diverged in a wood_…she did not remember any more of it.

She could either give up her vendetta…and if Robbins even _suspected_ Shepard was not giving one hundred percent to giving up something which had long since become ingrained habit, Shepard had no illusions. She'd find herself driving a desk for the rest of her life. Or scraping space junk off ship hulls somewhere.

She could leave…but where would she go? She did not _want _another post, especially with the risk the officer in charge would be an idiot.

Which really made the choice very simple, even if the application was a lot more difficult.

Shepard shifted, trying to get comfortable and failing. The new problem was twofold: finding a way to let go of her fixation—yes, she refused to avoid acknowledging the word anymore—and convincing Robbins she was sincere in the attempt, that she meant to succeed.

Robbins' would not accept an 'okay, I'll try'. She was fair, not stupid. She would want something a little more concrete, a lot less wishy-washy.

Shepard made up her mind, though she could not devote much brainpower to planning what she would say, because of the painkillers. She did decide, however, to present herself and her case before Robbins as soon as she was allowed to get up and walk around. With the advances in medical technology in the last two hundred years, there was no reason it should take forever and a day to get her back on her feet.

And if she still ached, well, pain was a great teacher, and a great reminder.


	46. All That I Have

"So, you're back," Commander Ludmilla Robbins scowled at Shepard. Despite Shepard's at-attention stance, Robbins could see it was taking a lot of fortitude for Shepard to hold it. The bruises still showed livid, and her arm still rested in a sling, with a brace from wrist almost to elbow. Medi-gel could only do so much, in Shepard's case, speed the healing of the cuts and abrasions on her face.

The bruises would have to fade on their own.

"Yes ma'am." Shepard's eyes remained fixed over CO Robbins' head. The echoes of Robbins' disappointment, summed up with her words and a disgusted shake of the head echoed loudly in Shepard's still-ringing ears.

_You damn jarhead. _

She'd deserved it. Shepard knew she deserved more cutting remarks, but coming from CO Robbins, as it had…there was no one Shepard knew whom she respected more.

"Your fitrep says you're to be kept on light duty. Nothing strenuous for…weeks." Robbins flipped the folder closed. "In fact, the report _strongly_ hints you ought to be taking it easy." Easy, as in a vacation.

Shepard knew if she 'took it easy', the _SSV El Alamein_ would leave without her. Perhaps it was the mild haze of pain, but the thought of staying behind terrified Shepard in a way she had not felt since watching her father killed in front of her, since that first batarian's head exploded in a spongy red mass.

"There's nowhere else I'd rather be, ma'am, than at my duty-station." Shepard dreaded CO Robbins' next words. It did not show on Shepard's face, calm and composed above her uniform's collar, but inside she was screaming, begging not to be left behind, or sent somewhere else, desperate to prove that she could master her own hatred, so as not to disgrace or disappoint the leader to whom she felt such a dogged loyalty.

Perhaps it was simply the impression Robbins made during that horrible night so long ago, or perhaps Shepard truly had an eye for spotting a good mentor. Either way, Shepard had come to regard her commanding officer with a cross of loyalty and trust that made her a valuable asset. She trusted Robbins not to throw her into a suicide mission. Robbins trusted Shepard to know this, and to complete whatever assignment she was given.

"Have you thought about what I told you?"

_Damn jarhead. _

Every silent minute she was alone in the medbay. Shepard's jaw did not tremble at the memory of the constant replay of admonishments, corrections, the deep-running disappointment that she could succumb to a weakness perceived as belonging to lesser humans. The words and thoughts beat into her skull like the tick-tick of a clock in a silent room. "Yes ma'am."

"And?"

Shepard's blue-green eyes dropped to meet Robbins'. "I'm a marine. Special forces. I will not repeat my mistakes." She meant it. As a soldier, her job was to kill the enemy—or do whatever her unit was assigned to do. It did not include bringing in personal grudges, a behavior which had somehow stayed beneath the radar.

"That's it?" Robbins watched for any sign of fire, or life behind Shepard's pale eyes, and found it.

"Permission to speak freely?" Better safe than sorry.

"Granted."

Shepard took a moment to compose her answer. "You called me a jarhead," a_ damn jarhead_, "before I set foot in your office, I cleaned out the sludge between my ears, and replaced the faulty equipment. There's no enemy…" it cost Shepard something to let go of this, even if she knew she would have to do it again and again in future, "…until you tell me who to shoot at."

"So I've got your assurances." The doubt did not go unnoticed.

"You've got all that I have, ma'am. Emergency reserves inclusive." The steel in Shepard's tone lent further weight to her words. "I will give all that I have, do all that I can, to stay with this crew, and the _El Alamein_. And if you choose to have me reassigned—and you'd be within your rights to do—I'll find a way back."

Shepard looked up from Robbin's impassive face, back at the spot on the wall. And she _would_ get back, if just to prove she could overcome any obstacle. Getting back here, if Robbin's chose to reassign her, would be much more difficult than forcing her hatred of batarians and all the scum in the Verge into some little compartment to be spaced at next opportunity.

"And your batarian fixation?" The words sounded as ugly as the batarians themselves.

Shepard's gaze dropped, her tone even. "What about the batarians? The Alliance is not currently in a state of open warfare with any of the Council races, any of the non-council races, or any powers within the Skyllian Verge, or the Attican Traverse."

By this point, some people would have shown some form of hope that they might argue their case, try to persuade Robbins to see things from their perspective. Shepard did not, knowing Robbins well enough to know the Commander kept her own counsel. All the pleading, arguing, or puppy dog eyes in the galaxy would not sway her, once she made up her mind.

Shepard had played her hand; now all she could do was wait.

"And you don't mind aliens?"

The question was so off topic Shepard's composure slipped, showing only confusion. "No ma'am. Non-humans don't bother me."

Robbins repressed a grin at the term 'non-humans'. "I'll take your request under consideration. Meanwhile, you're to return to the medical facility. You do what they tell you, until I make my decision."

Shepard wanted to ask how long a decision would take, but checked herself. "Yes ma'am." Saluting, she turned crisply and strode out, shutting the door behind herself.

Robbins settled back in her chair, glad to see her harsh commentary earlier seemed to have the desired effect. Robbins knew Shepard: once Shepard decided to make changes, no matter how painful, she damn well did it.


	47. Broken Pieces

Corporal Shepard sat alone in the mess on the _SSV El Alamein_, a bottle of Astro-Fizz open before her, the condensation on the bottle soaking her hands. This particularly anniversary of the events of Mindoir – now five years gone – tasted especially bitter to Shepard.

Commander Robbins had given her a choice: give up her batarian problem, or give up her posting on the _El Alamein_. Now that the fire had to go out, now that she had to break a habit five years in the making, the events that triggered it left her feeling cold.

Her mother would not have wanted to see what she, Jalissa, had turned into. Would not have wanted her to go out of her way to strike back against those who had struck out at her.

Her father would have wanted her to defend herself, to defend others if that was what she was called to do. But he would not have wanted her to let the smoldering embers of hatred consume the rest of her life.

Well, life such as it was.

Her older brother, Kian, would have given her his usual look of silent disapproval. Then again, she and Kian were at a point where they spoke fewer than ten words to each other a day. It did not mean, however, they did not care. They simply had nothing to say.

She certainly wouldn't want the example she set to be followed by her younger siblings, Rhannia, Quinlan, Isabella and baby Gabriel.

The familiar faces flashed before her mind's eye like snapshots, leaving her with the uncomfortable feeling of reality disconnecting. As if they somehow existed back on Mindoir, on the farm, while she was out here surfing stardust and chasing asteroids. It was something to do with working on a ship in deep space: time and reality sometimes seemed to bend when you spent so much time in an enclosed space, with a fixed crew of people.

Whatever illusions space and space travel cast, Shepard knew, deep down in her head, in the darkest corner of her mind, what the truth was. That they were gone. And all she had left of them were broken pieces. The shattered mirror of her life, scattered across the floor to be stepped on, or salvaged, but always with the possibility of sharp edges meeting soft fingers.

Broken pieces. Far too many, she thought moodily as she sucked on her soft drink, to ever put back together. And even if she could, the damage would still show, leaving the strength and integrity of the whole compromised.

It was amazing she was still free of the psych wards and the eggheads. Surely she ought to have had some kind of nervous breakdown, or meltdown, or _something_.

Or maybe working in space, in steering clear of the colony, helped block the unpleasant reality. Or maybe the wounds were simply scarring over. If they were, well, she wasn't sure what to think about that. She did not want to forget, but remembering still made her ache, almost as though she had a cold: all over.

"Shepard." Commander Robbins slid onto a bench across from Shepard, a mug of coffee in one hand, a datapad in the other.

"Commander." Shepard took another sip of her drink, all too aware she was running out of it. She had never asked Robbins what it was like, rescuing one person, and one person only from the ruin of the colony. Shepard had heard stories filtering from all sorts of sources: a lot of Alliance personnel on Mindoir had committed suicide in the intervening years. Particularly those closest to the largest city. Apparently, things were much worse there, than on the outskirts.

Surely that had to weigh on Robbins' mind…though perhaps not as much as it weighed on Shepard's.

When Shepard glanced up at Robbins' face, she noticed the older woman's eyes were not moving back and forth. She was simply staring at the datapad, giving the impression of reading it to all but the most observant people. A thumb tapped idly on her coffee mug, as though she was considering saying something.

There was nothing to say, as far as Shepard was concerned. Nothing except…

She finished her soft drink, then got up.

Robbins looked up from the datapad she was pretending to read.

"Thank you." Shepard's voice was small, and for a moment Robbins could see, as if the past cast an image in overlay across Shepard's features, an echo of the terrified teenager she once was.

Shepard did not need to preface the remark, did not need to give it context. She did not even need to state what she was thanking Robbins for, because Robbins already knew. Somehow, Shepard did not think the two words summed up the gratitude she felt to her rescuer, and now mentor, but in the absence of anything better, they would have to do.

Shepard got to her feet, threw out the bottle and lid, then headed toward the sleeper pods.

"Thank you, Jalissa."

Shepard stopped.

Robbins had leaned forward, with her elbows on the table, her hands pressed together, her face leaning into them. She looked tired, worn, and suddenly very old.

For a few moments Shepard was not sure what Robbins was thanking her for, but slowly it dawned on her. Shepard was not the only one who had broken pieces scattered on the floor from those events. It was thanks for living. Thanks for staying alive to be rescued.

For being a broken piece Robbins was able to pick up, to salvage, and save, in hopes that the effort involved on Mindoir might count for something. In hopes that just one more person could walk away from one of the worst attacks on a colony in living memory.

"You're welcome." The words filled the room, like the sound of a stone dropped into a well. Without another word, Shepard continued on towards the sleeper pods, leaving Robbins to gather her things restlessly.


	48. Magic

Shepard stopped walking along the grounds of Alliance Naval Station Halsey, the sunlight beating down on her hair, making her scalp feel hot. The fresh smell of the air came as a welcome relief from the recycled stuff aboard ship. It was so easy to get used to recycled air that when the nose finally got the real thing again, it left a person wondering how they'd managed to survive another tour in a galactic submarine.

Oddly enough, she still preferred the galactic submarine. Being groundside without a clear objective made her edgy.

From here, outside the Hasting-Warner Gymnasium, she could see a half dozen marines standing neatly spaced in the center area of the track.

Most of them were surrounded by a glowing field of dark energy, engaged in the biotics' equivalent of lifting weights. The mass effect fields swirled around them in raw, rippling power, performing acts Shepard could only classify as telekinesis, though she was sure that _couldn't_ be the technical term for what they did.

There were no biotics on the _SSV El Alamein_, nor had Shepard worked with any in the past. She knew what most people knew: element zero nodules in the brain, amps wired into the brain while teenagers…unstable L2 implants. These kids must be L3s, they were too young to be anything else.

Having a biotic on the team would certainly make firefights easier. How hard was it to fight an enemy hanging in the air by his heels? The diversity of stature among biotics surprised her. One expected a biotic to be fairly scrawny, relying on their ability to manipulate dark energy, rather than focus on physical strength or anything involving less… she settled for the word 'hoodoo'.

However, several of the biotics on the field were anything _but_ scrawny. Everyone knew biotics burned lots of calories doing the things they did, and as such their rations accommodated this. Still, two or three of the lads looked like the very epitome of iron pumping muscle heads.

Shepard found herself absently admiring the.

One of these days, she would have to sit down with a biotic and have them explain the intricacies of their abilities. As it stood, she had only one answer to how biotics and biotic powers worked, a definition used by naval personnel for centuries to explain things for which they had either no explanation, or no comprehension of the explanation.

_It works by magic_.

It certainly looked like magic from where Shepard stood. Visual effects and 'powers'…the fact there really were scientific explanations meant little, since no one bothered to explain biotics to the geek with a shotgun. It would be too much to hope for to find a well-built, mildly geeky biotic to hang around with.

Shepard found herself grinning at the thought of what O'Conner would say, if she were here.

_You can't have everything, but I _think_ we could find two out of three…if we look hard enough. I mean, _you_ can't be the _only_ nerd running around here, pretending not to be one._ _But we won't make any progress standing _way over here_. So let's go! _

Trying not to grin, for that was _exactly_ what O'Conner would have said before dragging her off to see if they couldn't find 'Mr. Two Out Of Three'. Or at least, the runner up. The intervening years softened the pain of O'Conner's death enough for Shepard to smile when random thoughts like this came skittering across her mind like clumsy marines on ice, without the proper footgear.

Still, her own brand of expertise in the matters of electronics might seem just as incomprehensible to others. Half of her expected—though she knew better—to hear O'Conner come barreling down the hallway, shouting at the top of her lungs 'hold up! _Hey_! _Shepaaard_!'. Upon catching up, O'Conner would breathlessly and enthusiastically elaborate some half-baked or hare-brained plan to pursue that all important, unattainable goal of 'having some fun'.

Shepard missed O'Conner—a friend she had never replaced, nor even tried to. It was not as though she felt finding someone to pal around with would betray O'Conner's memory; in fact, the likelihood was, O'Conner sat back in the Great Hereafter, throwing popcorn at the screen upon which she was watching the soap opera of Shepard's life, chomping at the bit to come down here and give her a good smack to the back of the head.

_I know you're a nerd, Shepard, but for crying out loud, you don't need to let _everyone else_ know it too! What's the _matter_ with you?_

Shepard's chuckle broke off when someone shouted a warning.

Instinctively looking up, she caught the flicker of a training weight glittering in the sun heading in her direction, along with half the biotics from the training field, one or two waving as though trying to push the fleeing object out of its current path.

Throwing herself to one side, Shepard rolled along the tarmac pathway, foregoing the good sense to roll into the grass. "Holy _crap_!" The training weight—which was a lot _bigger_ up close—slammed into the tarmac, leaving a sizeable dent and fracture lines.

"Are you all right…Chief?" She surmised this had to be an instructor.

"It missed." Shepard responded, almost unconcernedly as she saluted, still boggling over what that thing would have done to her head. Exhaling deeply, she glanced interestedly at the assembled biotics.

All of whom were officers—though mostly junior officers—so she did what she, Service chief Shepard was expected to do: she snapped a crisp salute in their direction, wishing she had been quicker on the uptake.

Of course a biotic wouldn't end up some enlisted ground pounder; biotics were hard to come by. "Sirs. Ma'ams." Hastily retrieving her bag she paused, watching the biotics, who watched her back. For another moment she toyed with the idea, now they were all standing here, of asking about the finer points of biotic abilities…

…_just let it work by magic._


	49. Fairy Tale

The recently-promoted Service Chief sat back in the copilot's seat on the _SSV El Alamein_, eyes glued on the various sources for feedback the pilots learned to read seemingly all at once. Her hand idly twirled her coffee cup, lights glinting off the surface of the untouched liquid.

"Anything the matter, Chief?"

Shepard shook her head. She was not sure she could put into words what was the matter. It was rare for her to settle in the usually empty copilot's chair, but when she did it was usually when she did not want someone chatting with her.

The copilot's chair was usually only used when switching shifts. No one wanted to bug the pilot while he was flying, so people tended not to chatter at the helm. Fortunately, it was late and the second shift pilot knew when to let a subject go.

No, it had to do with something she'd overheard after her promotion, a comment from one solider to another. She hadn't even seen their ranks, and so didn't know whether they were officers, or junior enlisted, or even fellow NCOs.

_She's living a fairy tale. _

Perhaps it was hearing the phrase without real context that made it stick to the inside of her mind like the anchor threads of a spider's web. The words tasted sour, leaving her stomach roiling as if she'd crammed down an entire pot of Collier's 'Chili Today, Hot Tamale'.

_Why_ Collier knew anything about chili made no sense, but her home region on Earth was known for spicy peppers. Maybe that was where the crossover occurred…

Shaking her head to clear it of the nonsense, Shepard took a long, slow sip of her coffee, letting her eyes fall out of focus.

_She's living a fairy tale_.

Well, if they meant this in the strictest sense of promotions and advancement, Shepard could agree. But the broad sense, the sense she initially got from the sentence…no. It wasn't a fairy tale.

The only reason she was with the Alliance was because she and her family were in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was this that had her up so late, drinking coffee, trying not to fall back to sleep. It had conjured up old nightmares. The old dreams' resurgence was so sudden and so unexpected Shepard had practically kicked herself free of the sleeper pod, finding herself sweating hard, face down on the rubber walkway, expecting to look up and see four eyes blinking down at her, above an evil leer.

Six years since the incident, and the nightmares grew less and less frequent, less and less vivid. It seemed to Shepard, as she closed her eyes, that the time between nightmares had somehow made them that much stronger. Or perhaps memory quickly faded, and a sense of security made them _seem_ that much more vivid.

She had no way of knowing. All she knew was she ended up sweat soaked and terrified, almost to the point of tears. She felt al title better, now, surrounded by familiar things. Even the bad coffee was a comfort, because it was so familiar in its poor quality.

For a few disoriented moments, she was sixteen again. Very slowly the _El Alamein_ had become recognizable, and her mind had reorganized itself, like an overworked secretary who had suddenly dropped her armload of work, sending papers and memos scattering everywhere. Gathering them back up in no particular order, rendering the entire world an uninformative, confused jumble.

No, life was not a fairy tale. In fairy tales, the innocent were exonerated, the villains cast down, and there was usually a happily ever after. Usually. For someone.

But not this time. Not for her.

Swallowing hard, Shepard's eyes drifted closed, but she shook herself awake as quickly as she started to slide into the deadly waters of sleep. She knew herself well enough to know the general rule of one nightmare in a night most people ascribed to did not apply to her.

…_living a fairy tale_…

Shepard's eyes unfocussed, as lights on the display in front of her blinked.

No, definitely no fairy tales here. Just a marine doing her job.

And she couldn't remember any fairy tale in which the maiden heroine type picked up a rifle – or a sword – and took on the role of defender for nameless, faceless others. The longer she thought about it,t he more amusing the comment became.

_Living a fairy tale. _

More like living a 'fairy _fail_'. She had to give a grim grin at the consoles as she sipped her coffee. Yes, very true and it suited her currently morbid mood. _Living a fairy fail. _Proof that bad things happened to good people, and sometimes there was no prince on a white horse, no happily ever after. Just shotgun shells, medigel, and eventually a flag-draped coffin.

Oddly enough, these morbid, cynical thoughts made her feel better, somehow driving back the echoes and threats of the nightmares. Waking life certainly wasn't nearly as bad as she painted it, perhaps that was why nighttime vision withdrew: because she truthfully, honestly knew she was painting a far bleaker render of what existed.

Well, if that was what it would take for her to sleep through the night without further disturbances, bring on the cynicism. Shepard finished her coffee in one long draught then set the mug in the cup holder on the chair's left. Stretching, she rubbed the back of her neck, her mind beginning to catch its second wind, growing alert and ready for the next shift.

Too bad that next shift was hours away.

But, the pilot was still here, and he was a good sport. "What's the next stop?" Shepard asked quietly, her eyes finally focusing, taking in the blinking lights and multiple displays. It looked like too much information for one person to process.

The pilot glanced over, surprised at the question. "Elysium. We'll be there before the week's out. Until then, its business as usual."


	50. Vacation

Service Chief Shepard settled back in the copilot's chair, prepared to enjoy a few days on the _SSV El Alamein_ relatively alone. The viewscreens before her, still lit up as background tasks filtered through their algorithms in the absence of the pilot, showed the main city of the Elysium colony.

Elysium may be the biggest colony the Alliance had, but to Shepard it looked like just another city. Skyscrapers, concrete, lots of the things she was sure held that ever-elusive concept of 'fun'. However, it was just another city, and she had seen so many since enlisting. It didn't make sense to her; she would rather stay on the ship, sleep and enjoy the silence.

Though she would doggedly argue to the contrary, the fact remained Shepard tended to keep herself as solitary as a hawk.

Which had to _end_, Commander Robbins frowned, as she spotted the familiar brown hair pulled back neatly into the regulation bun. "Shepard!"

Shepard jumped, then turned, scrambling out of the seat to get to her feet. "Ma'am!" She snapped to, recognizing Robbins' tone.

She should have hid out in engineering or something – a place Robbins wouldn't _go_. There were no regs saying she had to go ashore, after all. She was perfectly free to stay put…

…according to the regs. Robbins apparently had other ideas.

"What are you doing, Shepard?" Robbins sighed. The girl was such a recluse, if she was going to stay aboard when the jewel of colonization sprawled out before her like a carpet. There were plenty of places for – and she used Shepard's word – geeks to go hang out. Do geeky things. Get a little sun. Spacefarers tended to be a bit pale, but this was ridiculous.

"Um…" Shepard swallowed, then opted for the unaltered truth. "Watching the viewscreens to make sure the algorithms run smoothly, ma'am."

"Uh huh." Robbins cast another critical look at Shepard. "Get your stuff, and get off the ship."

Shepard's expression fell. She couldn't very well argue with Robins, who was regarding her with narrowed eyes. She did not need to tell Shepard she was going to stand here and watch Shepard disembark. With a sigh, Shepard headed down to get her personal effects – it was only a day trip, so personal effects meant her bag with her papers…and her shotgun.

Robbins did not roll her eyes when Shepard reappeared, her equivalent of a purse slung across her shoulders, her shotgun hanging across her back. It was not uncommon for marines or anyone, really, to take a firearm with them when on leave – especially if they were unfamiliar with the population – but really…the _shotgun_? A pistol would have sufficed, but Robbins knew the attachment to the shotgun was more than a security blanket. Shepard would dig her heels in. She would also lose the argument, but she would have eaten up who knew how much time, and Robbins looked forward to getting off the ship for awhile.

She did not look forward to a war of words with Shepard. And of all the people who wanted to argue back, Shepard had a margin of success higher than most, because she did it by exploiting the Big Book of Rules. "All right, off you go." Robbins nodded to the airlock, falling into step behind Shepard.

"Commander?"

"Hm?"

"Can I ask…why?" Shepard frowned at Robbins.

"Shepard, this is a vacation, not an execution. Go, have some fun…do whatever it is you like to do…" Robbins wasn't sure if Shepard had any hobbies that did _not_ contribute to the continuation of the Alliance. Which made her more determined to pry Shepard off the _El Alamein_, as determinedly as she'd ever pried a bad habit from a new crewman.

Shepard locked onto the inherent weakness of this statement, and could have used it to argue Robbins into letting her stay aboard. However, she respected Robbins enough not to exploit this particular weakness – so she made an effort not to show how let down she was by her argument and her allegiances. Shepard was not known for her sense of humor, nor for participating wholeheartedly in the human quest for fun. Life made her fairly serious, and Robbins knew it. "I'll try." The words sounded almost dragged out of her, against her will.

Normally this would have brought not so serious correction that marines didn't try: they damn well _did_. Robbins, like Shepard, was in a mood to let the little things slide. "It's Elysium, Shepard. It's well established."

Shepard nodded, knowing what Robbins was getting at. "I'll keep that in mind, ma'am." It would do no good to tell Robbins they had thought _Mindoir_ was well established - but today, that didn't even come into her desire to stay aboard.

She simply wanted some time by herself. It happened when you lived in close quarters with quite a few people – a liking of solitude. She supposed she could find solitude out in the city, but the fact remained she'd still be surrounded by a sea of humanity, which defied the point entirely.

The airlock slid open, making Shepard squinting in the blindingly brilliant sunlight. Fresh air carrying the scent of a city – smoke, exhaust, dust, things one became aware of when living on recycled air - wafted around her, as sound began to press against her eardrums. Windows winked and glittered in the city sprawling below the spaceport, warm sun seeping into Shepard's skin through her dark blue uniform.

"No fair doubling back on me, kid."

Shepard grimaced, but did not dignify this with a remark. Instead she marched off, one-two-one-two as if back in boot camp. Rather than bounding out of the port, eager to get away from the confines of the ship as quickly as possible, she looked as though she were arching off to her own execution.

"Come on Shepard!" Robbins' voice, riddled with amusement, railed after her. "It's a vacation! Not a death sentence!"

Famous last words: she was so wrong, it ended up funny.


	51. No Way Out

Author's Notes: Due to the format of this story, this is not a continuous account of Elysium. They're fragments Shepard actively remembers. There's a lot between these events that is not recorded, partly due to a lack of specific information about Elysium in the first place. Be aware, she's been up and running about for awhile, this is not the first wave of the attack.

On we go!

--

"What's happening?!"

"Get down, shitbird!" Shepard grabbed the man—unable to tell if he was local law enforcement or Systems Alliance—pulling him to the ground behind the chunk of concrete shorn off of one of the buildings behind which she hid. Popping her eyes over the cover, she leveled her shotgun. The resultant scream confirmed an unlucky batarian took the full blast of shot to the chest. "We're being invaded!"

It certainly seemed like that to Shepard, though for the first time when facing batarians—or a force mostly composed of batarians—she did not have vivid flickers of memories of Mindoir. All she saw was Elysium crumbling around her, too many people panicking. She grit her teeth at the audacity of the Terminus Systems hitting such an established colony. Surely they didn't expect to get away with it…

…but like anyone with an ear to the pulse of galactic workings, Shepard knew if they did not make the invasion pay dearly in men and material _here, now_, they'd get away with it. The Council wouldn't want to risk prompting the scum in the Terminus Systems uniting against a common foe.

So, make them hurt while they were in reach. Shepard's heard banged in her chest, but her mind remained icy calm. There were other soldiers—somewhere—and teams of civilians pulled together as haste and chance permitted.

He was law enforcement. "I can see that! What the hell!" He caught a nonhuman moving at an angle to them, four-eyed and ugly, leveled his pistol and opened fire.

Shepard popped up again, fired and ducked back as retaliatory fire zipped overhead. At least she hit them more often than they hit her. So far, she was uninjured. "Did you get him?"

"Yeah, I got him!" The officer gaped at where the batarian had fallen.

"Good!"

All through the air the sounds of screams, of panic, of shotguns and rifles answering the zipping, searing sounds of batarian blasters.

"Come on!" She yanked on the officer's arm, prompting him to follow before lying low to the ground, checking whether they were clear. Clouds of dust roiled overhead, kicked up by dropships mingled with the smoke of structural fires. "You're going that way!" She gestured up the street. Her heart lurched. "…can you hear that?"

The officer nodded, unable to distinguish the difference in sounds Shepard apparently could. He was amazed she could pick out different factions, with the cacophony ringing in their ears, bouncing off buildings.

"You get your ass back that way! They're Alliance!" Shepard's throat burned with all the much in the air, her eyes watering from irritants. Yes, the smart marine carried a proper weapon and their sidearm, but what she wouldn't give for a couple grenades!

"How can you tell? And where are you..."

"I know an Alliance rifle when I hear one! get your ass moving!" Shepard, heartened, opened fire again.

"What about you?"

"I've gotta get to the tower!" She pointed to one of the few tall buildings still relatively undamaged, this one with a communications array atop it. "Go, go, go!" Shepard popped up, unloading her shotgun as she strafed sideways towards the next patch of cover, the inside of a doorway.

The idiot followed her. "Why…the tower?" he panted.

"My omnitool hasn't got the range I need! 'Go marines' …crap!" Even if the officer couldn't tell, Shepard could: the Alliance was retreating. Pulling back in order to reform, leaving her six dangerously unguarded. "Where's that batarian you hit?"

"Should be in the alley…"

"Stay here!" Shepard let off a few more shells, profoundly grateful shotguns had evolved from their distant ancestors. Otherwise they'd be ridiculous in combat. But her ammo block was getting low.

Shepard located the body without getting her head blown off. Sergeant Urban Combat would be proud. She stripping his weapons and ammunition, as any good soldier would, before slinking back to cover, where the officer obediently waited for her. "What's your name?"

"Greg…"

"Great…" Shepard checked the rifle taken from the batarian. Obviously scavenged, or purchased through the black market, the assault rifle was as familiar to Shepard as her own hands, being Alliance standard-issue. "Take my shotgun. And the shot." She pushed the weapon and ammunition into the officer's limp hands. "Change of plan...Hey!" She slapped his shoulder, snapping him out of his blank-eyed stare. "If you don't listen up, you're gonna die! _Frak_! Stay with me, here."

Shepard peered out of the doorframe, opening fire. Keeping Greg behind her, Shepard led him through the back of the building, a restaurant, to judge by the implements. "You're going to have to cover me; aim high so you don't take my head off. Show me."

Greg pointed the shotgun.

"Aim high," Shepard's voice softened slightly as she gave the barrel a nudge with her hand. "_High_, okay?"

"Okay." Greg swallowed hard, his eyes fixed on Shepard.

"_Frak, _I'd love a couple grenades…" Shepard growled.

"You…" Greg's voice broke.

"Just stay with me, and keep the barrel high.

"You really do this for a living?" Greg gave a feeble titter of nervous laughter.

"I do this for a living." Perhaps not true the way he would interpret it, but first in, last out, was the team motto, after all. And from the sound of things, the decrease of fire and the near absence of Alliance-sounding arms, Shepard knew two things. One, she had to get to the tower. At the very least she could hack the broadcast net—if it was still up—and do her best to run a weapon-shorting signal through it from her omni-tool. Two, there was currently no way out. If the Alliance ships weren't blasting the dropships, or punching up the larger ones in orbit, there was a reason why.

_No way out_. Greg didn't need to know that. The Alliance would never abandon Elysium.

Shepard's cool, calm clarity reinforced Greg's wavering fortitude. He charged the shotgun, pale-faced but resolute. "I'm right behind you ma'am."


	52. Tower

Unlike the streets below, with the sounds of gunfire audible in the distance, the tower itself was full of quiet, huddled people. Newscasters, crew, secretaries, janitors, people who, for whatever reason, had not abandoned their tower refuge.

She could not decide whether this was wise or not, but it didn't matter. "Systems Alliance!" She wanted to make absolutely sure no one decided to turn her into a Swiss cheese in a moment of panic.

"Glad to see you, ma'am!" Three infantrymen lowered weapons as Shepard entered.

"Chief Shepard, SSV_ El Alamein_, Officer Greg…"

"Carmichael." Greg supplied, looking with relief at the Alliance troops.

"What's the situation Chief?" A grim-faced infantryman demanded. He had a bloody nick on his head, evidence of having fallen.

"Anyone here tried to using that tower? Send out a jamming signal or something…?" No deprecation, or irritation at lack of action, merely a request for information.

"No one here's a tech." Lowe, according to his nametag, declared. "We've been trying to keep the civvies calm." He and other soldiers grouped in, huddling to conversation would go mostly unheard. "What's going on, Chief?"

"All hell's breaking loose!" The third, eighteen at the oldest, supplied shrilly, despite attempts at calm.

"_No_ it's _not_." It was, but she refused to let this detail sway help, now she had it again. "We've got batarians crawling around like stink on shit. I need to get to the tower's powerbox. We've got fighters on the ground…"

The room shook, a deafening boom drowning out screams from the civilians.

"You and you!" Shepard pointed to the other two infantrymen. "Those rifles aren't toys! We've got high ground, keep an eye on the streets; keep 'em clear! Greg! I want an eye on the stairs. You," she waved to the mediamen, "get some of this crap against those doors. One way in, one way out!" She motioned to the fire exit. Blocking oneself in might be foolish, but it was better, with these civilians, than trying to defend four entrances with less than a half-dozen soldiers. "Lowe, bring your rifle, come with me."

No one argued with Shepard; the soldiers directed the civilians to follow her instructions before heading out to do so themselves. The infantrymen left to keep an eye on the street, in hopes of dealing with threats before they got in the building.

--J--

"What're three well-armed Alliance infantrymen doing here?"

Lowe looked abashed. "Putting on a good show, I guess. You, Chief?"

"Supposed to be on shore leave. Some vacation, eh?" Thank goodness she could count on little to no interference getting from here to the roof.

Lowe snorted in agreement. "So why isn't the Alliance blasting the shit out of these guys?"

"_That_, is the million credit question." She would love to know. It had been…hours…since this started. At least, it seemed like it to her.

"And if you get this…this signal out?"

Shepard suspected he didn't care, as long as the answer worked out to 'hang tight, kid, we'll be okay'. There was no need to crush his will to survive by making things sound as fatalistic as they probably were. "Hopefully, it'll buy our guys on the ground time to make a good counter. I'm going to try and cause the batarians' mods to overload and blow."

"Then?"

"Then you're going to keep your head down, keep your cool, and hang out here for a bit." Shepard had no plans to abandon this current place of safety. Not unless the batarians looked ready to sacrifice a dropship to knock the tower over. High ground and limited access put the small party of fighters in a better position than they would have elsewhere.

And there were the civilians, too.

She wished she'd chosen to specialize with a sniper rifle, as opposed to sticking with her shotgun.

Sweat rolled down her face as conversation stopped as the two soldiers huffed unabashedly as they lugged selves and gear up the stairs, floor by floor, flight by flight. Her vision began to blur as sweat and grime got into her eyes, stinging them worse than ever.

The air still hung hazy when Shepard and Lowe slid out of the stairwell onto the roof. The muffled quiet inside made the noise outside seem all the louder. The rapport from rifles below rose like sparks to meet them.

Shepard approached the tower, yanking the casing off the powerbox.

"What branch are you with?" Lowe asked, cradling his rifle nervously, ready for something to pop up at him.

"Marines." She dragged jumpers from a pocket in her fatigues, hooking them between the omni-tool and the powerbox.

"I just thought…"

"Look, I'm all for conversation Lowe, but I need to concentrate, okay?" Polite spoken as she could manage. Shepard closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then set to work, her fingers dancing across the interface of her omni-tool, which beeping and blipping incoherently to Lowe.

Lowe wanted to walk over to the edge of the building for a better look at events streetside, but did not dare leave the Chief alone. Her attentiveness to her omni-tool made it clear she could not brace for an attack _and_ do her self-appointed task at the same time.

"And this won't foul _our_ rifles?" He couldn't stop the itching question, once he thought of it.

"No." Shepard's hands remained steady, surprising herself.

A muffled boom shook the building, return fire popping below.

Shepard gave a whoop, as her omni-tool made a noise like a small fan or turbine winding up. Her batarian-modded assault rifle, lying where she had pushed it, gave a _pop _as non-standard mods exploded, rendering the rifle useless.

Lowe's firearm remained functional.

"There!" She snapped the powerbox shut, pulling her shotgun off her shoulder. Back to basics. "I can remote activate the…" she stopped, seeing the non-tech's non-comprehension. "Never mind."

As long as the antennae stayed operational, she could remotely send out another pulse. The tower could pick her unique signal from some distance away.


	53. Teamwork

Shepard ducked into the doorway, thick black smoke curling into the air over the smoking sprawl of Elysium. Hours had elapsed since she left the tower, and with it Lowe, his two comrades, and Officer Carmichael.

The enemy fired back, drilling holes or scorching brick as they sought to find a living target. Relative silence fell as Shepard peered past the deep doorframe, kneeling to do so. Through the smoke, she could see some of them, hunkered down behind a chunk of concrete.

How long had the fighting been going on? She wished she had a way to disable more weapons all at once; there was no shortage of enemies. She also had not yet found any serviceman of any branch. Part of her wondered if the colony had swallowed them up, or maybe, the enemy was launching a two-pronged assault.

_Ch-chk._ _Boom_._ Ch-chk._ _Boom_.

Shouts of pain and surprise met Shepard's volley, which was rapidly answered with another wave of fire. Slipping into the building and out the back, she padded cautiously down the service street, looking for unlocked doors. The sounds of jeering voices cut across the gunfire as Shepard found a new place to crouch, picking them off as best she could.

_Ch-chk._ _Boom_.

Shepard primed the shotgun again, but heard her own gasp as if she'd screamed as a small orb landed through the broken window beneath which she crouched. Without thinking, she grabbed the grenade and threw it back.

Slow, but not too slow. The ordnance exploded midair, blasting Sheppard back. Her face burned as she tried to turn away. The landing slammed her head against the rubble-strewn ground. She lay there dazed, unsure of how time moved.

A batarian shadow approached cautiously, weapon at the ready.

Blood trickled from superficial wounds, but her mind cleared even as the dust around her settled. Shepard met two of the batarians' eyes. The old hatred surged up, before being shoved down by icy cold resolve. She was not a little girl anymore. She unloaded the second bout of shot, every inch a soldier.

The batarian fell back, his head exploding in spongy mass. Memory flickered, another batarian keeling over backwards with face mostly gone, but it seemed to have faded in the intervening years, even if other memories from that time remained sharp.

Scrambling painfully, she charged back into the service street. She hadn't run more than a hundred meters before she found herself pointing her shotgun at a Systems Alliance standard-issue suit of body armor. She lowered her shotgun quickly, knowing that even grimy as she was, the BDUs on a human were enough that the Alliance wouldn't take her shotgun in their direction personally.

"Whoa!' The man in the lead raised a hand. "Name, rank."

"Service Chief Shepard." Her voice cracked from tiredness, eyes burning.

"I'm Sergeant Palmer, thirty-eighth advance entry." Palmer lowered his gun. "You must be the chief Lowe was talking about."

"Absolutely. You know where _El Alamein's_ crew is?"

"Nah, but if she's here, we didn't see her. There's some stiff fighting on the other side of the city, but monitoring caught the bastards sneaking around the back way—right to you." Palmer answered.

"What's the word from Command?" Shepard's eyebrows knit together.

"Dig in, hold out. The Alliance's prepping a counterattack. Once they've got the navy out here, it'll be mop up."

"Got anything in that rifle, or is it just decoration?" Palmer asked, nodding to the longer-ranged weapon—clearly scavenged—hanging by its strap.

"Do you know how much ammo I burned up, waiting for you jokers?" Smiles all around; in a situation like this, mild sarcasm was a good sign. Shepard struggled before she managed cot the assault rifle off her shoulder, her back reminding her she _had_ just landed on it, and forcibly at that.

Palmer tossed her a fresh block, which she inserted with relief. A rifle was better for this sort of thing, anyway.

"You all right?" Palmer held out a tube of medigel.

The gel stung as, mingling with the blood and grit still on her face, it began adhering to wounds she could not see.

"What happened to you, Chief?" Palmer eyed her critically.

"Grenade. If they're regrouping, we better get to it. You're sure they're coming around this way?"

"That's what Eye-in-the-Sky said…"

A door burst open. Shepard pivoted, in a split second registering the difference between a human and a batarian, then opened fire as it stepped into the alleyway. A good thing too, she realized as his weapon dropped: she had seen this particular sort before, saw what it had done.

"Well, they're regrouped—double back behind them. We'll take turns keeping them busy. Go, go, go," she waved Palmer to get a move on, slipping back towards the open door. Shepard fell back to one of her previous haunts, positioning herself low in the front doorway.

Something moved, and Shepard let off a three round burst. "Did I get you?" she called, intent on keeping focus on herself. The answering fire made her stifle a yelp, a blast from one of the batarian-made arms burst through the wall, only a few feet from her. Peering out of the smoking hole she returned fire, all too aware of the limited time she had before this building looked like Swiss cheese.

Up the street, from her side, came friendly fire, causing the batarians to swear, evidencing they did not realize it was no longer Shepard firing.

Withdrawing, Shepard hurried up the street to find one of Palmer's men crouching in a building not much more intact than the one she had just left.

"Heya Chief…"

From the other end of the street came another burst of fire. Shepard glanced at her companion. When he nodded, she opened fire again. It was important the batarians not realize it was a scant half-dozen soldiers moving around, not an entire company making use of the back alleyways.

All they had to do was hold out.


	54. In the Storm

Shepard's ears rang, her teeth buzzed, and every nerve in her body ached as she scrambled over the pile of rubble, sliding down after the others. She landed wrong, barely managing to stifle a scream. The _crack_ issuing from her ankle went unnoticed, as those members of her ragtag band of resistors opened fire along the street they had just sprinted down.

On the sheltered side of the rubble Palmer's men, and those civilians augmenting the soldiers, were already returning fire.

The reorganized batarians, now with a mix of other Terminus System scum, had started pushing the defenders back. However, all present knew they could only fall back so far, before they started to find clusters of civilians with no defenses, and nowhere to run.

Batarians might be here to loot, or pillage, but everyone knew batarians did not have the same scruples as most of the galaxy in regards to slavery. Her eyes stinging, Shepard forced herself to stand, gritting her teeth to stifle a whimper as her ankle protested. Her scramble to the top of the rubble pile was painful and ungainly, but lying prone between Palmer and another granted her some relief.

"You all right?" Palmer demanded.

"Fine!" Shepard sighted along her rifle, pulling the trigger. At least her ankle did not directly affect her ability to pull the trigger.

"They're like roaches!" one of the civilians shouted, spitting off to the side before taking his shot.

Shepard's next mark fell, a three round peppering his chest. Setting her rifle aside, she activated her omni-tool, taking advantage of the time when she did not have to run, or provide cover fire. It was for the last reason that she had fallen to the back of the group—it was her job, and she knew it.

"Dammit!" she swore so loudly it made several people jump, and several swear as shots went wide, missing marks.

"What?" Adrenaline coupled with startlement at her outburst made Palmer's tone short and sharp.

"I lost the tower's signal!" Typing furiously at her omni-tool, Shepard failed to reacquire the wireless link to the tower's powerbox. Someone must have finally knocked it over, or tracked the signal to disable it. Shepard pulled a fresh function, tweaking it as quickly as she could. Up ahead, the sounds of swearing and the beeping of overheated weaponry brought grim laughs to Shepard's force—for she had long ago noticed that when she spoke, people listened.

It felt weird, but this was not time to worry about 'weird' if it was keeping people alive.

"Don't suppose you're a biotic?" Palmer's voice did not offer much hope of this.

If she were a biotic, she'd have put those skills to good use by now. It was not, Shepard thought glumly, as though Palmer hadn't noticed the lacked of a biotic's amp. She wished she _was_;it would make picking off the onslaught a lot easier. "Nope. You?"

Palmer's snort at the sarcasm made her smile. Biotics weren't exactly a credit apiece.

Shepard struggled to ignore the pain in her ankle, throbbing madly with all the effort and energy of a toddler throwing a screaming, fist beating tantrum. It affected her aim; an unbiased part of her wondered how much damage her hearing was taking, during this storm of crossfire.

Everyone ducked as one intrepid enemy let off a volley before vanishing back to his spot of relative safety. One of her men shouted, then slid backwards to the bottom of the pile of rubble.

"_Bastard_…" the shout from one of the men heralded an increased onslaught of retaliatory fire.

Shepard weighed her choices as she regarded her omni-tool. "Give me a minute!" Sliding back down the rubble, ignoring the open-eyed corpse, she caught herself with her good leg, measuring the distance to the next-nearest bit of cover.

Slipping to one side, taking refuge behind a wrecked landcar, not too far from where the others lay, but a little closer to her target. Shakes wracked her hands, as she activated her omni-tool.

The only saving grace was that the batarian causing problems used a high-powered energy-pulse rifle, which left a traceable signal. Given the outrage when one of their number fell—and they had lost several civilians and one of Palmer's men previously—she knew none of them had ever seen what those sorts of weapons could do. The only difference between the firearm she remembered and the one she now sought to disable was that the one she currently dealt with was a lot bigger.

More like a bazooka than a rifle.

Breathing hard, Shepard squinted through the gunk in the air, through tiredness, though pain. The navy couldn't get here fast enough, and they'd never simply roll in, guns blazing without some sort of coordination. Tactically sound, it did not make waiting, trapped on the ground, any easier.

Beep. She did not hear the sound from her omni-tool, so much as know it was there. The sounds of weapons' fire increased until it rattled her teeth. From the direction of the batarian came a whirring whine. He shouted, the weapon clunked, having been thrown…finally an explosion, marking Sheaprd's success.

The not-batarian gunman tried to run. Three shots followed, but not one hit him, which made Shepard swear.

"Shepard!"

"What?" She shouted back, her voice finally sharp.

"You do that?" Palmer demanded, meaning the hack, not the poor shooting.

"Course I did!" Shepard struggled to get to her feet, using her rifle as a cane, but dropping back to her knees as a shot ricocheted overhead. She could not tell who fired it, but it was better to stay where she was.

It was not until Shepard did not rejoin the group that anyone realized she might have a reason for not rejoining the group.

"You all right, Shepard?" Miller, an Alliance retiree, asked as he joined her.

"I think my ankle's broken." She reflexively kicked when Miller touched the injury.

Miller looked up, blinking. "Do you hear that?"


	55. Through the Fire

Shepard looked skyward, into the smoke spiraling overhead, then gave a hoarse bark of laughter, as the sound of engines overhead screamed. Shepard's immediate thought of 'we're saved' was doused by the blast of a plasma canon, hitting the remains of the cluster of batarians.

Miller hauled Shepard to her feet, helping her limp back to where the others huddled behind the revetment. Palmer clapped her on the shoulder, relieved. They had lost enough people so far, and Shepard was a risk-taker.

But she got things done.

Shepard's ears rang so loudly she could not hear what was being said. She only knew the relieved expressions on all faces matched her own, as she sank onto the ground.

"Shepard?"

"I'm okay," Shepard grunted.

"She broke her ankle," Miller answered.

Shepard rolled her eyes with a sigh. "Coming over the revetment, but we can't worry about that now."

"I'll splint it," one of Palmer's soldiers produced a small medical bag. In the end, the splint was the most jury-rigged affair Shepard could imagine, but between that and lacing her boot up unnaturally tight, she could put some weight on her ankle without feeling like it was about to fall off. Or maybe that was the spray the soldier pressed into her arm, which dulled the pain.

"Come on, we've gotta get out of here," Palmer got to his feet.

Shepard, assisted by Miller, got to hers, leaning heavily on her rifle. "You got safe zone coordinates?" She asked, testing her ankle.

"The Alliance is broadcasting—the blackout's over." Palmer waved a small radio. "We'd better get moving…" Palmer eyed Shepard's ankle dubiously.

"I'll keep up." She appreciated the concern, but this was hardly the place for it. Unless she was much mistaken, the place was about to get more hostile, now the navy had their ducks in a row, and were bringing in the plasma canons.

If Shepard thought the smoke was bad, just from the fires started by the batarian predations, she was wrong. Adding plasma canons to the mix, seemingly zapping at random, increased the amount of smoke exponentially. Shepard had never walked her way through a forest fire, but she suspected it might actually be easier than loping through the fire raining down from the air.

She only hoped no one topside would confuse their running cluster of lifesigns for batarians running the wrong way. It was possible, she supposed, and found herself praying for a little luck here, as well as the ability to carry on one more step. Painkillers or not, the constant pound of bones on the break in her ankle began to wear on her.

But what could she do? Ask for a time out?

Twice the party stopped to return fire, usually only long enough to work themselves out of range, until finally they found themselves joining clusters from other pockets of resistance—mostly civilian, some who recognized Shepard, calling to the Chief, but whom she could not remember—having made their way towards the heart of the city.

"How'd you guys get down on the south side?" A commander, rendered faceless by soot demanded, aghast at the sudden appearance of the small advance entry force with Shepard and civilians. Everyone else was coming from east or west.

"Got there earlier, while most of them were eastside," Palmer answered promptly. "Found Shepard already there; she's part of _El Alamein's _crew. She gave them a hell of a time."

"You're the one who set up the tower?" The commander eyed Shepard, as though he recognized her name.

"Yeah, did they all get out okay?" Shepard asked huskily.

"Things were getting kind of rough, but they got out all right."

"Have you seen anyone from the _El Alamein_?" she demanded.

"No, but I overheard a mention they were eastside looking for a missing man. Guess that's you."

Shepard nodded.

"How're we doing, Commander?" Palmer asked as Shepard subsided.

Of course, CO Robbins would never simply _leave_ her in a bad fix, but Shepard understood difficulty in getting from Point A to Point B when under fire.

"You hurt?" the Commander demanded.

"Huh?" Shepard knew she should not have said it, for the Commander eyed her beadily. No officer liked to hear 'huh', though in this case it spoke loudly of her hazed mind, and pain.

"How bad are you hurt?" He demanded, pointing to the splint.

"It hurts, but it's under control. I can still…"

"Hit the dirt!" Someone shouted.

No one questioned it. Shepard flung herself to the ground as something—a grenade, her mind relayed—exploded. Gunfire answered as Shepard gimped as quickly as she could to join what she supposed was the rearguard, squeezing of a few shots as hazy forms of disarrayed batarians moved. They were obviously in retreat, having careened into a shooting gallery from a side street.

Their fire was only meant to force the Alliance to keep their heads down.

"Do you ever _quit_?" Palmer shouted in Shepard's ear, unloading a few rounds.

The blowback of air rocked Shepard's sinuses. "Not when there's hooting going on!" Someone, a biotic, suddenly had half a dozen retreating batarians struggling as they were pulled inexorably towards the revetment and its pack of gunners.

"Sir!" Someone barked enthusiastically, "permission to pursue!"

"Hell no!" The ground rumbled as, up ahead at the top of the street, three blasts from a plasma canon scorched the stone. "No one's running through that fire, playing hero!" the Commander snapped watching smoke rise.

Shepard unloaded a few more rounds before a darker cloud of smoke drifted sideways across her vision as the wind began to blow, sending chills along her sweaty skin. Yes, this was definitely no time to play the hero, not when the smoke was getting thick enough that the difference between friend and foe began to blur. Certainly, all the soldiers, and the herd of shouting, screaming civilians beyond, looked very much alike, all pale beneath a thick layer of soot, sweat, and dirt.


	56. Hero

Shepard lay in the medbay, trapped in a state between awake and asleep. Her muscles ached, her face burned, but pain was good. Pain meant she had survived her newest round of what CO Robbins would call stupidity. In her defense, Shepard never intended to get caught in a bad situation. It just…happened.

The juvenile excuse made her want to smile, but the muscles in her face refused to comply, so she settled for a mental smile instead. No one was there to see it, so why not?

The door clicked open, followed by the clack of many shoes, all of which stopped within a few paces. They were watching her; they had to be. At first Shepard wondered if this was Robbins come to chew her out—or give her the Robbins version of a compliment for having lived to tell the tale…

"So this is Shepard?"

Shepard recognized the voice immediately, her stomach lurching feebly, trying to crawl up her esophagus to huddle anxiously by her heart. Fleet Admiral Hackett. She'd heard his voice often enough, the man was practically the voice of the Alliance Navy (and by extension, the marines). However, he sounded neither displeased, nor as though he were preparing a telling-off for her.

"Yessir."

She recognized that voice too: the overeager brownnoser. Shepard composed a mental, thoroughly non-verbal greeting for him, mostly out of habit. She would never perform such a greeting on front of Hackett—probably a career-killing move.

"N3-I Shepard, Jalissa A."

What had he done, swallowed her file? The file didn't mention that, unlike so many of her cohorts within the N-I program, she preferred and remained proficient with her shotgun. Hence the nickname Shotgun Shepard.

Whatever it took to stand out in the crowd. Get good enough with a shotgun and no one worried when you inevitably broke out nerd glasses or a disposition towards geekiness.

The door opened again. "Admiral Hackett!"

"Dr. Bowers." Why should Hackett have come down in person? The details of the past couple days hazed so heavily with the sedatives or whatever the medbay had her on that it took her through the pleasantries to establish where she was before this, and what she was doing at the time.

"How is she?"

She remembered…leave. She was in Elysium. She didn't want to spend her liberty in the big, bustling city, so she'd headed for the outlying edges.

"She's fine, Admiral. Bumps, bruises, strains, broken ankle. We thought she'd done worse, it's why she's here, now. Frankly, I'm surprised she's in as good condition as she is."

She never made it out of the city. She'd stopped, distracted on the outskirts, and wound up staying in the fringes. Then _they_ came. The memory of dark shadows sweeping overhead, the flashes of those moments on Mindoir before hell broke loose across the landscape of her life. It seemed to give her something akin to prescience as she had shouted suddenly for the nearest shopkeepers to get a hold of the garrison, get under cover or get their guns.

"Good. Can she hear us?"

Shrewd man, that Admiral.

The wash of memories of the batarians swarming from their dropships, four-eyed and ugly as she picked them off. Dropping in, uninvited, with weapons that could turn a man to melted marshmallow did not invite peaceful negotiations.

"Probably. If she can't, she should be coming out of it shortly."

"Why sedate her if she's not badly hurt?"

Bowers chuckled dryly. "She'd never have stayed put if we hadn't, gimping around and trying to help. Told two of the medics to save it for the civvies. However, most wisely, they decided letting her walk around on that ankle might cause her more problems down the road."

Shepard's eyes opened a fraction of an inch, affording her a thin strip of vision, all of it obscured by either white light, or the silhouettes of people she assumed were Hackett and Bowers. "Ah," the shorter of the two leaned forward. "She's waking up."

Hackett's shadow made a disbelieving noise. "Her eyes are open, but I don't think anyone's home. How're you doing, marine?"

Shepard tried and succeeded to blink sluggishly, but no words left her mouth.

"See?" the shadow shook its heard. "Still out of it." But he did not sound displeased. "Once she's up and around, keep her here. I want our hero debriefed before we feed her to the press. If you can hear me, Shepard, stay put."

Shepard tried and failed again, to intimate she heard and understood her orders. All that happened, though, despite her best efforts were that her eyes slid shut, the muscles behind them aching from the bright lights surrounding the Admiral and the doctor.

_Hero_. She didn't want to be a hero. Hero was usually a title awarded posthumously, though from the amount of pain beginning to creep up from her ankle, and the burning on her face, she was fairly sure she was alive. And what was the point of telling a dead body to stay put, really?

Hackett left Shepard mulling the usual correlation between heroes and the dead. She did not have much time to think. A moment later Bowers jumped as the door wrenched open.

"Commander…"

"Bowers…_you dumb marine_!"

Shepard smiled; this time it carried over to her face. The hold of the sedatives had loosened somewhat more, enabling her to open her eyes enough to _see_.

"Don't smirk at _me_, soldier!" Robbins looked caught between frustration, and rolling her eyes.

"Commander!"

"'S oky." Shepard slurred.

"You're making a whole new round of mistakes, Shepard. They're going to make you a frakkin' _hero_." Robbins had no use for so-called heroes. To her, they were liabilities.

Shepard winced as she tried to move. "S' okay. They can kill me…but they can't eat me…'cause it's cannibalism and it's against the law."

Robbin's mouth pursed in a way Shepard knew meant she was caught between disapproval and amusement. "_Heroes_." But she did not sound angry.


	57. Stars

The sun burned hot overhead, causing sweat to drip beneath Shepard's collar; her eyes squinted in a most unattractive fashion to block the light. Still on Elysium, still dealing with a broken ankle, Shepard sat straight backed, ankles crossed as Admiral Hackett spoke to the assembly.

Events people were already calling 'the Skyllian Blitz'—or just 'the Blitz'—had caused a total upheaval in Shepard's life she had not expected. She thought, when CO Robbins first came to see her, the officer was simply saying, in her own inimitable fashion, she was glad Shepard survived.

The truth was somewhat different, as Shepard discovered as she drifted onto the tail-end of a dose of painkillers. She still did not understand how all this could have happened to her, without her being any the wiser. Then again, when one's focus was staying alive, or keeping others that way, details like a body count, or insurmountable odds did tend to fall to the wayside.

Shepard said, when asked by Hackett what she thought, now the whole business was over, she was simply doing her job, and was proud to serve. Sir.

He produced a piece of paper, which he handed to her without further comment; a commission, promoting her to second lieutenant. From an enlisted—albeit a specialist—grunt to an officer.

There they were, the first tremors of the impending upheaval.

Shepard checked herself, remembering she should not chew on her lower lip as Hackett continued. He was not rambling, but between the low-level painkillers keeping her ankle at bay—no one was supposed to know it was broken—made it easier to pay half attention than she liked.

Shepard's recollections involved lots of batarians, and herself without half the ammunition she would have liked. She had not bothered counting batarians, who had time for that with bullets flying?

The official records indicated she'd actually done the near impossible. She held the line, first alone, then with a small group as the direction of battle changed, the heaviest fighting moving from the battered eastside to the lightly defended southside—right to her front door.

Hackett then dropped the real bombshell, the reason why she now sat squinting in the sun, her ankle throbbing dully, in time with her pulse. The Star of Terra, one of the highest honors a serviceman could earn.

They wanted to give her one.

A Star of Terra.

The very words thrust Shepard into the bright spotlight of center stage, and she realized one reason why she never pursued her childhood dreams of becoming a dancer. She hated people staring at her, especially those media piranhas with the cameras, the microphones, and the editing suites that would certainly twist her either into some kind of military icon, or the devil incarnate.

She couldn't do a thing about it except smile as they fed her to the sharks. She had not known then, but the Commander who had warned her of this, seeing her grimacing at the thought of walking through a set of double doors was none of other than Commander David Anderson—one of the finest N7s the program ever turned out.

Robbins' advice was similar: quick time, Marine.

Marine, not lieutenant. Which _had_ made Shepard smile, as she saluted both—perhaps a bit cheekily—before striding off to catch up with everyone else.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Lieutenant Jalissa Shepard."

Shepard managed to rise gracefully to her feet, managing not to limp obviously, joining Hackett. Before she met him, Shepard thought he would look rather forbidding, a little dubious of anything anyone said to him. He did give the impression of weighing anything someone told him rather heavily, but at the same time looked almost pleasant. If humanity needed an icon to represent the Alliance Military, they certainly had one in Hackett.

"Good work, Lieutenant." Hackett's voice did not carry, despite the array of microphones.

"Thank you, sir." Something rose in her chest, pressing against her diaphragm as Hackett opened the blue velvet box, showing her the medal, and the little ribbon which went with it. The Star itself was a blue and green ribbon, with a star surrounded by laurel leaves suspended beneath; in the heart of the star glittered a small stone, a green-blue iridescent thing which did look a little like Earth.

She went cold as he settled the medal at her throat, closed the box and handed it to her. The medal hung oddly heavy about her neck, a weight against her collarbones disproportionate to its size. Perhaps it was delayed shock, but Shepard's mind did not begin to settle back into its usual place until she was back in her chair. In the intervening moments, even her ankle seemed to stop throbbing.

Catching a glimpse of Robbins sitting several seats down, Shepard realized Robbins was actually watching her out the corner of one crinkled eye. Robbins gave an almost imperceptible nod, and both women turned their eyes front again, towards Hackett's back.

It took the rest of Hackett's speech for Shepard to work out why she felt so strange. As everyone, herself inclusive rose, she knew she did not really deserve the Star. She did not really want it, not when the only reason she distinguished herself was—as hours half-drugged in the medbay had illuminated for her—a deep-seated terror of staying in one place while there were batarians about.

She had run, stayed on the move on Mindoir. She had stayed on the move when bringing a fight to the enemy when it was part of a routine mission. She did what she had always done when she heard the screech of the dropships: kept moving. Raised obstacles, or encouraged bastions of protection for those who could not follow the very logical advice of _keep moving_.

Shepard's hand closed around the little box. She didn't deserve the medal, or the commission. She knew, even if no one else did, she had distinguished herself by subverting the urge to run away.


	58. Advertisement

Shepard would have liked very much to go back to the _SSV_ _El Alamein _and_ hide_. But no, no one would permit that, and in any case it smacked of a cowardice she was no longer allowed to show.

Alliance Marines might give ground, to redouble the attack when the terrain was more advantageous: they called it playing the field. They did not _run away. _Ask and this would be impressed upon you, usually with threats of bootheels to make the message sink in.

An Alliance Marine might also quote information as being top secret, highly classified, refuse to say anything further and walking off: that was called political non-diplomacy, and while it lacked tact, it was also almost expected behavior, when a reporter had their camera droid's lights and their own microphone in your face. They did not _retreat_—this was a matter of Alliance security, after all.

An Alliance marine might even hide out at their duty station, or in their apartment on the base, depending on the situation—discretion was the better part of valor when it came to surviving on dry land (spaceports did not offer this excuse, though it was still used). But a Star of Terra recipient categorically was not allowed to remain anonymous. Nor was she allowed to remain out of the limelight: heroes made good political fodder, which was why Shepard found herself so far out of her depth.

They wanted to parade her around little prissy, puffy, yappy little show dog: the sort that looked so cute, until it started biting your hands and showing its temper. And, to add further to frustration, there was nothing she could do about it.

It was all right for the Os and politicians to strut around in their best, but for goodness' sake…

At which point Shepard remembered _she_ now belonged to 'the Os' herself. A _lieutenant _no less_._ How many butterbars had she grimaced about? And now here she was one herself. Irony had such cruel sense of humor. Shepard fully intended to get herself promoted as soon as possible, to get rid of the golden bar. The only reason she had not put up a fight, had kept her tongue and temper in check, had less to do with the Alliance's opinion and reputation, and more to do with the fact those people closest to her—the majority of whom were gone—would have beamed and burst with pride to know she'd come up through the ranks

Even O'Conner, who would have given her so much crap about it.

Adjusting her dress uniform, Shepard shifted. At least the Alliance was shuttling her around to all these dog and pony shows – though this was little comfort, as it still meant walking around on her bad ankle. Fortunately her mess dress was long enough to hide the fact she was wore comfortable shoes and an ankle brace.

The so-called hero did not get the luxury of sporting battle damage. At least, not after a point of notoriety.

Shepard could not help thinking the fact she wasn't exactly a troll didn't hurt what felt like a massive campaign to plaster her grim, trying to stay impassive mug across ever screen from Earth, to Mindoir to the Citadel and back.

"You all right, Lieutenant?" The driver asked, his grey eyes flicking into the rearview mirror.

"Fine." Normally, in a crowd, Shepard had to repress the urge to look around for the lieutenant in question, unused to such an address. With the first of what Admiral Hackett promised would be many rounds of meet and greet looming, Shepard wished she had just kept her head down. This was categorically and with no holdouts, _entirely her own fault_.

"Here we are," the drive intoned a few moments before he pulled up in front of the Embassy.

Shepard took a moment to straighten her posture, to make sure she looked in command of herself by squinting into the rearview mirror—which the driver kindly adjusted for her—before taking a very deep breath.

"Go get 'em, ma'am."

Shepard gave a lopsided smile. Some of the minor damage she'd taken to her face included a curious nick at the corner of her mouth, which although healed, scarred in such a way as to give her the appearance of constantly smirking.

Stepping carefully free of the vehicle, Shepard tried not to squint as flashes popped and lights blossomed over her eyes as she walked the long carpet towards the Embassy, showing her military ID to the door's guard. "Thank you, Lieutenant."

Shepard nodded, glad to have the lights to her back as she continued towards the large white collection of domes. Once inside, a human attendant escorted her to the table shared by Admiral Hackett, Commander Anderson (whom she now recognized for who he was), CO Robbins, and three or four others whom Shepard supposed were politicos.

"And here's our guest of honor," one of the politicos smiled, as Shepard's chair was draw out for her. Shepard settled, immediately checking to make sure her skirt was clear as the waiter pushed her towards the table. "Good evening, Lieutenant."

"Good evening, sir." Shepard glanced around, then finally addressed Admiral Hackett. "Thank you for inviting me, Admiral."

Hackett nodded graciously, though Shepard suspected this was to confirm she'd addressed the right person. Well, that was reassuring, imagine starting this show off on the wrong foot.

"You'll forgive me for saying," one of the other nameless politicos—a woman, this time—declared, "but you don't look a thing in person like you do in the vids."

Shepard forced a smile, which looked almost natural. "Well, ma'am, heavy makeup and strong lights can do that to a person." She agreed wholeheartedly, and rather than assume the remark was a catty one (one never could tell, the way these people liked to smile), she chose to pretend it might not be. Otherwise she'd be tempted to fiddle with the small pistol strapped to her undamaged ankle.


	59. 67

Shepard sat back, frowning at the datapad, a mix of irritation and disappointment mulling about behind her calm exterior. She should have known better than to try and do anything important while still taking those stupid painkillers. Unfortunately, with the amount of limping around she did, what could she expect?

She refused to use a cane, lest someone with a camera ambush her. The Alliance was adamant: no one was supposed to know, officially, she had gotten hurt during the Blitz. With the embarrassment of having gotten hurt by simply landing wrong, Shepard felt a mix of gratitude for the burgeoning urban legend and a little bit of disgust at the same. She worried about the superwoman image she was being given, because sooner or later the very human core of this becoming-iconic figure, who happened to share her face and name, was going to get hurt or dead.

And then what?

Shepard could answer that too: the Alliance got a martyr, and could really go to town.

The thought almost drove away her irritation at the number blinking up at her from the proficiency exam. Yes, one shouldn't take them when one's brain was muddled, but the simple fact she barely passed was encouraging. It meant by the end of the course, she would blast the scores to skeet. Thank goodness this was only a baseline…

The perfectionist in her, however, continued banging her head against the desk, screaming a litany of 'no no no! That's not _right_!'

Looking at one of her short answers Shepard would have bet hard credits that was what the instructor was thinking as he read it. She did not even have the weak excuse of bad handwriting. Well, finals tended to be practicals; no one cared if an N could do the work on paper, they needed to do the work in reality. Which was why Shepard sat in a classroom in one of the moon bases dedicated to training specialists.

Shepard glanced around the classroom, and noticed several faces turned towards her snap to the front of the room—mostly male faces—as she caught sight of them. This was something else Shepard had not foreseen when the fighting on Elysium broke out. She had not expected anything to happen, except the usual 'job well done, get back to work'.

Now, people knew who she was. People she'd never met in her life would find excuses to talk with her, shake her hand, ask for photos—things Shepard had always associated with _fans_. As she was not in the show business, or the music industry, she never expected to have to deal with them.

Shepard hated photo or autograph requests, both of which made her feel highly uncomfortable. However, so far, she had managed to put on her PR hat and managed to cope. Coping with kids who wanted to see a real live hero—In and of itself a unique occurrence, though she never pointed this out—was easier. Kids tended to see marines as larger than life, thanks to fiction and great recruiting campaigns.

She did not mind being a hero for kids.

The goggling of fellow servicemen, however, made her uncomfortable. Seeing her mug plastered everywhere—with the appropriate lights, soundtrack, or choice phrases clipped from her own occasional public addresses—was disconcerting, and uncomfortable.

She never realized how _grim _she looked when nervous or wrong-footed. It did not seem to bother anyone else, though.

Her eyes fell back to the score blinking on the datapad. She certainly felt grim _now_.

Hopefully it would simply be attributed to a bad day. Shepard shoved the datapad into her bag, activating the screen before her when prompted by the instructor. Unlike in high school, where the instructors spelled things out for you, things here were somewhat more intuitive, little blanks spots which background knowledge could fill in.

She still could not decide whether hacking the database to change her grade would count as an offense or as extra credit. One was as likely as the other around here, though she was not yet desperate enough to try find out. Not if it might negatively affect her N-status. She could live with a low score on a baseline test. She could not live with damaging her training. She needed the training to advance, to make herself more efficient. It was the motivation that had kept her alive for so long that by now it was simply habit: every breath, very action or the greater good of the ship, the crew, civilians, and the Alliance.

Which was not to say she did not have her own interests, those interests simply lay in the same direction as the Alliance's. Besides, her inner nerd in BCGs knew the technique of fragging the inner workings of a machine, robot, VI or other mechanical item was coming up soon, and the topic fascinated her.

After all, using a shotgun lacked the finesse of using an omni-tool for a hack. The ability to keep one's head down and take out a small turret on the training grounds was always a plus. The rubber bullets might not kill you, but _oh_ they did hurt when they impacted!

Shepard remembered watching an advance class several years ago—how one enterprising student had reprogrammed the turrets, instead of 'exploding' them as was expected, to fire at the pane of glass behind which the instructors and coordinators presided. He'd wound up in the gig pit, of course, for his cheekiness, but he also graduated with honors from that evolution.

_So if you want to be that good, or even close to that good, you'd better work a little harder and pull those scores up. _Especially_ if you don't want to repeat this level in the program_, Shepard concluded, as she began to work on the problem flickering on her screen. She had no intention of flubbing the N-certs.

It still sucked, though, when one hundred percent effort yielded sixty seven percent results.


	60. Smile

Lieutenant Shepard could not repress the smile playing around her lips. She tried. In fact, for a full twenty minutes she tried to school her expression into the marble impassivity of serene indifference.

The problem was, with a heart busting with pride and a stomach weak with relief, impassivity and serenity were two things out of reach. Five weeks after the Blitz, and amidst people wanting to bother her while she was either on the painkillers, in pain, or trying to study (or worse, instructors wanting to discreetly test her mettle) had her ready to commit hara-kiri with her omni-tool.

Or, more accurately, butcher someone else with it. Never mind the omni-tool had no weapon functions. She was a marine: _adapt, improvise, overcome_.

Now, however, her ankle left her mostly alone, she did not need anything stronger than aspirin; the aspirin was for headaches only. She seemed to have had a lot of those…but not so much now. She came out near the top of her class (all those 'test her mettle' scenarios must have been adding bonus points to her scores). She had finally gotten used to seeing her face plastered everywhere, and stopped feeling startled when people went out of their way to talk with her or ask for her autograph; only civilians asked for photos.

It was during this time she realized she knew where one of her strengths lay. She liked chatting to the younger officers, or even the younger enlisteds going through the program. More accurately, she liked advising them about how to excel, what made a good officer, or a good NCO. She liked watching their faces light up as if inspired.

It did not make her feel any more like the hero she supposedly was, but there was something gratifying in knowing that maybe someone, or many someones, might not have to go through the school of hard knocks to learn some of the important lessons.

Like keeping your head down, your powder dry, and your socks clean, as the old saying went.

But with the sun streaming into the classroom of NI candidates, Shepard found it impossible not to smile. A rare occurrence, an expression as warm as the light outside which made her look years younger even if only around her eyes.

After weeks of pushing her nose against the grindstone, of late nights and early mornings, of gimping around and praying no one noticed (though if they did no one said anything about it) all the effort had paid off. Even the abysmal, hated sixty-seven percent on the baseline smoothed away, sublimating beneath the rock solid outcrop of success.

And she scored high without having to hack the system. Not that students _could_ hack the system, but instructors pegged the 'good' students by whether or not they hacked the dummy system, set up apparently for that purpose. Shepard's annoyance with discovering the fake while attempting to get an early tally for the classes vanished when she and three other candidates were sent from the room supposedly in disgrace the next afternoon.

They wound up working ahead, rather than sitting through lectures and paperwork, having proven they were ready for something a bit more intensive. Some people argued Engineers and Infiltrators were nerds (or nerds with enough firepower that people tended not to insult them to their faces).

Very few people realized how heavily ground teams depended on those same nerds. Particularly when VIs went wonky, as one simulation covered, or when the enemy had more guns than the so-called 'good guys'. It was always easier to shoot an enemy who could not shoot back, due to his weapons overheating, or to pepper an enemy with small arms fire when his kinetic shields started to malfunction.

Ah, the joys of managing a battlefield. Pity that in real life there were usually far fewer places to duck behind, while running these sorts of hacks. Usually it was simply best to keep your head down and keep moving. And you could tell, watching the trainees, which ones knew what it was to bring an omni-tool to a gunfight, and which ones had only book-learning and simulator experiences.

Now that the pass list was published, liberty until the _SSV El Alamein_ swung around to pick her up. She missed the ship, missed the crew, missed the general stability both provided. She would miss the real food they served here in the chow hall, but you couldn't have everything.

Even if there was no real graduation ceremony, not for N-program participants, there would be _cake_. Everyone loved cake, and believe it or not, cake on the last night was all that kept the students going some days, when the task loads were heavy, or the instructors came down like wrath out of the sky.

But the task loads were over, until she got into the next evolution of advancement training. Not every N got as far as she had. A few more ranks would put her as far as she could go…then there was the rest of her career to look forward to. For Jalissa Shepard, the future had never looked so clear, or so bright.

Thanks to the small datapad resting innocently before her on the desk, she could see pale, silvery light on the previously dark horizon of The Rest of Her Life.

"What's up, El-Tee?"

Shepard's eyes flicked to the instructor, who looked as though he ought to have been throwing parachutists-in-training out of airplanes somewhere. "Nothing, sir." She could not wipe the smile off her face; try as she might, she only succeeded in looking as though she were sucking on a lemon.

His eyes fell to the datapad, the screen still lit brilliantly, Shepard had not turned it off, before he nodded once and continued whatever he was saying. On the desk before her, lay the single datapad, containing her personal profile…with an addendum on the top, dated that day.

_N-Operative Qualified For Advancement (Combat/Technology Specialization Progam): Shepard, Jalissa A._


	61. Flowers

"You going to be okay, kid?" Most of the _SSV_ _El Alamein's_ older crewmen called her 'kid'—Maguire in particular. The bearlike operations chief handed Shepard her shotgun as she climbed into the landskiff. With her ankle healed, and limelight still glaring in her eyes, now might not have seemed the best time for most for her to undertake a difficult mission.

Particularly a single-handed one. "Yeah, yeah, I'll be fine, chief." The words felt square in her dry mouth, her stomach bucking this way and that.

"You sure you don't want to take someone with you?"

Shepard turned her attention to the dashboard, away from the earnest face of the chief. Even now, after she'd finally put on a few more inches of height, he still seemed as bearlike and indestructible as he had when she was a panicking teenager. Contrary to many stereotypes about NCOs—particularly navy chiefs—Maguire possessed a rather benevolent nature: he'd go with her, if she asked.

He had kids of his own.

"Thanks chief, but no. I can do it." Shepard strapped herself into the landskiff, pulling her goggles down to block the sun.

"Okay. Be careful—try to come back in one piece this time, huh?" With that parting joke, he gave the landskiff a thump, as Shepard revved it up. Within moments she streaked out of the Base's garage.

Shepard's eyes squinted at the brightness as she left the Base, zooming out across the southern continent's wide plains. Once again, in the back of her mind, Shepard found wished more military vehicles had OSD decks. A little music would have broken up the atmosphere nicely, particularly the loud stuff she felt like listening to right now.

She did not remember this place being so bright, and the herd of indistinct silver flashes made her stomach twist. The sky above remained cloudless and blue.

She should have brought Maguire. Suddenly, doing this on her own seemed like a very bad idea. More than Maguire, she wished O'Conner was here: O'Conner would have been just as pleased Shepard had come back as anyone else.

But O'Conner wasn't here. People tended not to stick around, and part of Shepard could not tell if it was simply that she was unlucky, or if she was somehow getting all her bad luck out of the way at once. She hoped it was the latter. She was finally tasting the loneliness of being a space marine. Making friends, even among her own unit, got harder when you were afraid of losing them.

The light bounced off the small pack of varren as Shepard's heart sank to hunch next to her stomach. Well, at least her internal organs kept each other company. It was here she noticed how cold her fingers were, how her sweaty hands slipped, how her knuckles blanched from their death grip on the wheel.

Her side mirror showed the Base near the horizon, while her brain drew up an addition to her mental map. While on-Base, she would ignore the locale. Now she was off it, however, she felt like a knight on the way to slay her first dragon.

Despite chiding how this wasn't so bad, compared to the Blitz, how this ought to be easier than giving up her batarian fixation, memory refused to be reassured. Not even fear of losing face in front of the crew worked, because she knew the ones whose opinions mattered would not think of it like that. Most of them would agree with Maguire: she could have taken someone with her. Probably should have.

_But you're also an N. You're one tough bitch_—_just ask the batarians, or the mercs you keep going after, or…or…oh hell. You're a marine dammit, quit being a wimp. _

Memory rarely responds to self-bullying, and it certainly did not work now. In fact, memory retaliated by painting old nightmares across the sunny plane. If Shepard had more courage, she would have waited until later in the afternoon, but she could not bear to be off the Base once night started to fall. Everyone had or developed a planet upon which they did not like to operate—usually referred to as 'unlucky' for lack of a better word. It made the user sound superstitious to a rookie, or to a civilian, but cruising around space gave a person new appreciation for something like luck.

Shepard, for instance, was lucky to have reached her twenty-fourth birthday. Twenty-third, according to the official records the military had. The official record had never changed, once her real age came to light.

Shepard's stomach began to churn as she got closer to her destination. Finally, though, she stopped the landskiff, and checked the sky again. Not much marked the spot, but Shepard's mental maps were as accurate as they ever were, particularly of a place she knew so well. Even without the manmade landmarks, she knew the natural ones well enough to know where she was, as long as she stayed within a certain radius.

Shepard climbed out of the landskiff, pulling out her shotgun, and a bouquet of yellow roses. Eight roses; one for each of her siblings, her parents, and one for herself. As much as she would never admit it to anyone, part of her really had died her, almost seven years ago.

Shepard strode up to where the front door of the house should have stood, a place delineated only by the scorched concrete foundation of the farmhouse. Wordlessly Shepard bent down one on knee, gently placing the flowers on the true grave of the Shepard family. The headstones elsewhere held no meaning for her—or perhaps meaning too dreadful for her to face.

No words came to mind to speak to the beloved dead. No closure filled the icy voice deep in her soul, keeping the rest of the whole chilled. If anything, the chill got worse, because 'real' gravesite or not…there was still nothing for her here.

They were still _gone_.


	62. Family

Lieutenant Shepard hated playing cards. She truly did – it was not her strong point and she had never put a lot of effort into _making_ it her strong point. Now, if they had used cards she could somehow hack she could have played and played well.

But apparently people knew enough not to leave technologically based toys near someone whose specializations included technological engineering.

Robbins smirked at Shepard, who was still frowning at her cards, occasionally shuffling them.

"You know," Maguire's eyes shifted towards Shepard's fidgeting, "the only change you're going to make to that hand is rubbing the ink off the cards."

Shepard did not answer this, but sighed, then shrugged. She hated cards. She liked, however, being around the people at the table – the closest thing to family she had had since the age of sixteen. Maguire and Robbins in particular. Now she was allowed to join the officers' card games, it was only to enjoy the company that she was here. After a few hands she could gracefully back out and watch Ayers, the chief engineer, and Collier from requisitions clean up on everyone else.

"You're allowed to drop out, you know." Robbins looked away from Shepard, who was pursing her lips and crinkling her eyebrows in the way that meant she was not going to back down from something.

"Yes, I could…but what the hell? I'm bound to get lucky one of these days." Setting her cards facedown, she reached for her bottle of Astro-Fizz, then breeched it. She ignored the looks she got for it – everyone else had something more sedate (and to Shepard's mind boring and unappetizing). Mostly water, though Collier kept a not-so-secret secret stash of what she _said_ was Perrier.

It looked like water to Shepard.

And _she_ was tough enough to enjoy a fizzy, traditionally kiddie drink at officer's poker night, while _losing spectacularly_. It was enough to make Shepard grin. That had to be a true measure of toughness –the ability to do things un-tough, and show a supreme lack of concern. "I don't see why you're complaining, Collier," Shepard picked up her cards, "you've been winning all night."

"Shepard, just because I _can_ scalp you, doesn't mean I do it because I'm _heartless_. You remember basic, don't you? There's a difference between can and should? This'll show up on my permanent record." Collier touched her shirt, beneath which her crucifix rested, wholly hidden. "Fleecing butterbars unmercifully…it's gotta be on the list of things not to do."

"Well, you can cite the fact that I'm stupid and stubborn. So it's not really _your_ fault." A sound enough justification o offer, Shepard though, a though confirmed by Collier's 'hmm' and shrug.

Robbins snorted at this, more in agreement than in derision. Yes, Shepard had done quite a few stupid things.

And _recently_.

Shepard argued it was habit by now.

Robbins argued Shepard was simply a marine in that respect. There was, after all, a reason they were called jarheads. Which actually worked out to a compliment…

"Well, I'm out." Ayers put his cards down, shaking his head, then touching his ear radio.

"Expecting trouble?" Robbins' eyes slid towards her chief engineer, knowing if he was here he was not expecting _major_ trouble.

"Lee's watching the drive core. It makes him jumpy. He needs to get over it," Ayers shuffled his cards, not unlike Shepard had earlier.

"It'd make me jumpy." Shepard would never, ever, apply to join the engineering crew working with a drive core. Too much eezo, too many things she currently explained by the old standby: _they work by magic._

"That's 'cause you're no engineer." Ayers fished in his pocket, then grimaced as he failed to find a cigarette. Half of engineering seemed comprised of smokers, but with the vacuum of space outside, smoking was curtailed unless the ship was docked.

"And you'll notice that I leave that sort of thing up to you guys who are _good_ at managing that sort of thing. I stick with what I'm good at: shotgun shells and explosions." Shepard gave him the thumbs up.

Ayers rolled his eyes, but smile lines creased his weathering face.

Several of the other members of the game looked away: Shepard _was_ good at shotgun shells and explosions. After all, she'd only dropped a building on her own head _once_.

"So, are you going to place your bet, or just chatter all night?" Keeler looked up from his previous silence.

Shepard ignored the rather brusque question from the man widely accepted as a failed officer. Seventeen years and he had never advanced past first lieutenant. Shepard had found herself in the wrong place and the wrong time, then found herself promoted from enlisted to _officer_. No one who knew her doubted her ability to claw her way up the ranks as an officer just as well as she moved through the enlisted ranks, provided she learned a bit more diplomacy between then and now.

Shepard dropped a few chips into the pot with a sigh. "Right. I'm in."

The looks traditional of a poker game were changed and exchanged, while the pot steadily grew, poker faces becoming stonier and stonier as Shepard sipped her fizzy drink, the bubbles tickling her nose.

"All right." Robbins set her cards down, an action which moved clockwise from her.

Finally Shepard set her cards down.

"Unbelievable…" Collier gawked at the hand. "You can't _hack_ these things! It's why we use _paper cards_!"

"Gee, thanks Collier." Shepard tried to scowl, but her grin prevented it. "Like I said: I've got to get lucky sometime. And now, I think I'll sit the next round out." Smiling cheerfully as everyone else gawked, scowled, or simply tossed back the rest of their water, Shepard gathered the jackpot, then began playing with her omni-tool.

The game recommenced, augmented by cheerful clicks and beeps from Shepard's omni-tool.

All this scene of family frolic needed…was someone telling her to go get them a drink out of the fridge.


	63. Kick in the Head

If there was one thing Shepard hated these days, it was walking into the middle of something wholly unprepared, nothing to do with her. Wasn't life grand? That was exactly what she'd done. She had no idea what started the fight, or who started it, but she knew why no one was getting involved. Even she could not do much more than stand where she was, hand on her pistol, but she did not draw it.

The newly promoted Captain Ludmilla Robbins stood near the bar, snarling at a massive krogan. He was bigger than the one who allowed Shepard to buy him a drink in lieu of fighting him, and looked as different as night from day. For instance, this one was probably older, with a red crest that matched his red eyes.

Red eyes in a scarred and angry face, a face shoved offensively close to Robbins', though this did not seem to bother her, for she was snarling right into it as if practicing in a mirror. Meanwhile, patrons were scuttling to get out of the way. Robbins looked ready to _explode_.

"If you've got a problem with one of my guys," Robbins snarled as Shepard edged close enough to hear her words, "you come talk to me! They're _my_ guys; _I'll_ sort them if they need sorting! _You_ don't try and sort it out yourself!"

"I'll sort 'em out whatever way I want to, human," the krogan rumbled, red eyes glittering, his throat bulging slightly, not unlike a frog's.

"She's gonna kill him." Shepard declared blankly to anyone who could hear her. It certainly looked that way: Shepard had never seen Robbins' face go patchy red with anger, never seen the granite gray eyes flash like that, never heard the bite in her tone.

Yeah, the krogan should definitely start running, because the marines had a saying: the bigger they are the more glasses dance when you throw them on the ground.

From the looks of things, he could set the whole bar rattling.

"You try it," Robbins snapped back, "and I'll kick your ass, krogan." And despite the size differences, and the legendary toughness of a krogan, Shepard could not see Robbins losing. Robbins didn't make threats, it wasn't her style.

"I'd like to see you try," the krogan chuckled. Despite his grin, his hand moved for his pistol.

Robbins did not go for her pistol, but she did take the krogan up on his invitation.

_Bam_. Robbins' hand jumped from her pocket to the krogan's throat with a speed Shepard had somehow not expected. Robbins didn't usually go on missions, she stayed with the ship to coordinate – particularly coordinate rescues or judicious application of the plasma cannons. The brass knuckles that came with the fist added more power than usual, and Shepard marveled again, this time at her own stupidity. Of course, Robbins would never let herself get complacent just because she was in charge, the woman loved to _box _when she had time to pursue a hobby – and at the perfect form of the punch.

"_Ulp_," the sound the krogan made as Robbins' brass knuckled fist hit him in the throat would have sounded comical if the situation were not so serious.

The single punch did not take the krogan down, but it did send the patrons scattering as the krogan, holding his throat with one hand, swept at Robbins with the other.

The blow knocked her sideways, but except for sending her five or six feet away from her target, it did not seem to stun her.

Shepard pulled her pistol, in case the krogan went for his gun. She hoped he wouldn't – things would get very ugly, very quickly.

Robbins darted forward, blocking a blow from the krogan with her arm before socking him in the throat again with the brass knuckles. Shepard winced as dark bruises began to blossom quickly beneath the skin, swelling as blood pooled in the krogan's neck.

As Shepard watched Robbins dancing about the increasingly irate and frustrated krogan, she realized how lucky she was all those years ago, that she never wound up fighting one herself. She kept waiting for the force of the blows Robbins was blocking to shatter the Captain's arm.

Robbins suddenly sucked under the krogan's guard, and socked him twice in rapid succession, once in the throat, and once right between the eyes before she danced back, breathing hard.

The krogan growled in his throat, then his eyes rolled and her toppled forward.

Robbins cracked her neck, slipped off the brass knuckles and shook out her first. "What is it, Lieutenant?"

"Is he dead?" Shepard asked, walking over to the krogan, who seemed half conscious despite the blows. His eyes were open, anyway, even if he didn't seem to see much.

"Nah, he's a tough bastard. They all are," Robbins declared approvingly. "Look at this," she held up her knuckles for Shepard to observe.

"Wow…you're not kidding," Shepard's eyes widened as she examined the bruising knuckles. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," Robbins waved, looking down almost sympathetically at the krogan. "Hey, when he wakes up, give him a drink, one me." Robbins stepped across the krogan – which Shepard thought was very brave of her – and paid the startled bartender, once he'd sidled close enough to take the credits. "So, what's so important…"

The krogan made to get up, moving very quickly for someone who had just had his head handed back to him. Robbins jumped then kicked, the heel of her boot catching the krogan on head crest. With a groan he went limp. Seeing Shepard gaping Robbins shook her head. "The crest's there for a reason, he'll be okay." The unconcern, the cocky but not unwarranted air would make something fantastic to discuss when topics for idle chatter got slow.

Who'd believe Robbins just laid out a krogan like it was no big deal? Well, probably the whole ship, but the kick in the head to top it off was just…perfect.


	64. Blood

Shepard expected asari to bleed blue, which would explain the pigmentation of their skin. They did not: they bled purple, and much more copiously than a human.

"I don't like it, LT," Forbes grunted, eyeing the injured asari askance, "this isn't our business."

Shepard grit her teeth, trying to remind herself a lieutenant should not chew the ass off xenophobic recruit just because he was greener than anything she'd ever seen. "I'm not going to tell you again, Forbes," Shepard declared softly, "the mission is to unpin and support the asari. We got them unpinned, so now we support. If you've got a problem with nonhumans, go tell Partridge I told you to swap places and go back on the shuttle. Get a move on, or ask one of these ladies what you can do to help. Come on, guys," she addressed the rest of her six-man unit.

Shepard hated working with Forbes. It was getting to the point she wanted to belt him in the mouth. "What can I do?" Shepard asked, setting her shotgun on the ground as she knelt across from the nearest asari, trying doggedly to treat one of the others.

The blue-skinned woman looked up at Shepard for a moment, mistrustful, then seemed to decide the life of her patient was more important. "Just hold the packing." She forced it into Shepard's hands. "Harder…" Shepard pressed the packing against the gaping wound. "_Push harder, dammit_!" the asari snapped.

Shepard got onto her knees and leaned her weight on the packing, vaguely aware that it made sense she'd need to exercise more force than a human would need. The asari's blood _gushed _as if under higher pressure than that of a human. All around weapon were put aside.

"That's good, just hold it."

Shepard gazed into the blanched face of the still writhing asari, grateful for her human build. Humans were heavier bones, and in some ways more strongly built than the average asari. Not that this gave them an advantage when dealing with asari commandos, for whom Shepard had a healthy respect.

The injured asari winced, one hand gripping Shepard's wrist, though Shepard couldn't tell if it was a feeble attempt to relieve the pressure on the wound, which had to hurt, or for something to hold onto. Unable to spare a hand, Shepard simply caught the asari's eyes. "It's gonna be okay, we're almost done." She was not sure of this, but the asari, shaking like a leaf, nodded. Licking her lips the asari gripped Shepard's wrist until her fingernails dug into the armor.

"Can you apply the medigel?"

"Yeah…" It did not take a genius, but Shepard thought the actual question was whether she had A strong enough stomach to gel over a gaping, gushing wound.

"Take your gloves off first I don't want…"

Shepard heard voices raise, but could not hear the words, since the argument was still fairly quiet.

"_What are you doing_?" the attending asari shouted over Shepard's shoulder.

Shepard glanced over, to see Forbes arguing with an asari towards the back of the room. "Partridge, you're relieved, take Forbes' place! Forbes, over by the door! _Move it_!" She might not let anyone yell at her troops but herself, but she sure as hell would yell at them if they needed yelling at. She would simply do it in a time and place of her own choosing. Without an audience. 

Forbes could not argue with Shepard. Looking mutinous, he saluted then swept off, Partridge giving him a look which clearly indicated pissing off the Lieutenant was not a good idea.

"Give her the gel, then these," the asari continued briskly, handing Shepard a pair of sealed packets—not unlike overlarge ketchup packets in the chow hall.

Shepard nodded, then addressed the injured asari as the medic moved on. "This is going to hurt, but not for long."

The still-shaking asari nodded as Shepard let go of the packing. Shepard stripped her gloves off, not questioning the logic or the wisdom of working bare handed. The lack of pressure caused the asari stifle a groan of pain.

Breaking open the tube of medigel, Shepard applied it exactly the way they taught in basic, counterclockwise, spiraling towards the center of the wound. The asari's blood seemed to burn against her hands; the pasty color indicated the asari had lost more than was safe.

The wound covered, Shepard helped the asari gulp down the liquid in the packets, watching until the woman's eyes closed.

After checking that the situation as well in hand, now the asari had help—Shepard was amazed it took a couple of massive explosions to put them in a bad enough position they needed rescuing—she went to deal with her more immediate problem.

Pulling Forbes out into the ruined hallway, Shepard shut the mangled door behind them, forcing her tone low and calm, when what she really wanted was to shout at an idiot. "What's your problem, Forbes?"

"They're asari…Lieutenant…"

"Yes, and they're also _injured_ friendlies." Or as friendly as non-humans ever were. Asari tended to be the most accepting of the Council races, when it came to humanity.

"They're asari!" Forbes protested, looking shocked. "They're not _human_, Lieutenant."

Shepard's eyes flashed. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're not Terra Firma. That sort of xenophobic bullshit isn't going to fly!" Shepard held up her hand, still covered in purple asari blood. "They _bleed_, Forbes. Just like you, just like me, only purple." Shepard planted her hand on his shoulder slid it diagonally, leaving a trail of blood across his breastplate. "Get your act together."

Shepard stalked past him, making a note to find out if there was a more comfortable spot for Forbes—one which did not involve him, her and non-humans in the same vicinity.

"Thank you…lieutenant?" it was clear the asari medic was not familiar with human rankings.

"You're welcome. We're here to help—what now?" Shepard wished she had left Forbes on the _El Alamein_.


	65. Safety First

"Shepard to _El Alamein_."

"_This is _El Alamein_, go ahead, Shepard._

"Is the Captain there?" Shepard looked around the room uneasily.

"_I'm here, Lieutenant._" She was probably hovering close enough to communications to eavesdrop. Robbins did it for every away team she sent out—kept an ear open. Safety first. Staying apprised of a situation was the first step.

"Captain, I'm going to make the recommendation we don't stick around here. These asari are pretty beat up, and I've got that twitchy feeling. You know the one?"

"_Four eyed-uglies, the back of your neck_." Robbins had heard about this twitch before and like any solider knew as often as not it was simply situational awareness on a very subtle level. Little clues, unnoticeable individually, coagulating into a very clear idea of when something was amiss. "_Recommendation_?"

"We put in a call to the nearest asari ship, right?"

"_That's right_."

"Safety first: let's just put them in our medbay and hang out in orbit…"

"_Shepard…_"

"That's not all." Shepard broke in, lowering her voice, so it would not carry. "I'm having a serious problem with Forbes, if he doesn't watch it either I'm going to belt him in the mouth to get him wised up, or some asari is going to break him in half. And a couple of these ladies could use a couple pints of syntheblood, and we don't have any of that down here—not for asari, anyway."

Shepard knew Robbins was not xenophobic. In fact, the Captain was notoriously open-minded about non-humans in general, seeing her role in the scheme of things as someone who was supposed to build bridges when she could, helping debunk the usual human stereotypes.

Hence why they were bailing out asari. Hence why Forbes' attitudes were upsetting Shepard. Usually she'd have told him to keep those kinds of opinions quiet, and leave it at that—he had the right to his own opinions. But not when they compromised the mission.

"_All right, Shepard. Give us…" _

"_Thirteen minutes, Captain." _

"…_thirteen minutes._"

"Aye Captain. We'll be prepped and ready." Shepard disconnected the uplink then strode over to find the asari who was showing the most leadership. "Miss…" she kicked herself for not having asked what the asari's name was before now, but then again, a good opportunity for introductions had not come up before now.

"It's Ceireine," Ceireine answered mildly, though her expression as taught. "They're still out there, you know."

"Yeah, I know. I talked it over with my superiors. With the integrity of this building, the way your crew's beat up, and the fact we don't know how many more of _them_ are out there…or what their weapons status is, we'd like to invite you and your team to wait on the _El Alamein_, until the _Remembrance_ gets here."

Ceireine frowned. "The _Remembrance_ is our ship of duty—we were supposed to catch up, once out mission was concluded. How many hours?"

"Eighteen, maybe more. They were the closest ones. Also, it'll be easier to treat these ladies," she nodded to the asari who had taken the worst of the damage, "onboard. We can whip up asari-spec syntheblood, get everyone patched up and ready to go. It's the safest thing, right now." Safety first, after all.

Shepard tried not to look as though she was holding her breath. Between having been pinned down for so long, between the ambush, the unexpected explosions which had caused most of the asari's injuries, despite their usual biotic abilities to protect themselves, it _was_ the safest thing to get them up on the _El Alamein_.

That and she could chew on Forbes, or Capt. Robbins might do it for her. Shepard followed Robbins' lead when it came to bridge-building with non-humans. Forbes was becoming a liability to that lead.

Ceireine frowned.

"Look," Shepard tossed down her cards.

"Eighteen hours is a long time," Ceireine cut in, after watching Shepard closely for a moment, as if she could see what the lieutenant was thinking. One of the reasons asari made Shepard vaguely nervous—sometimes they gave the impression of _reading minds_. "But eighteen hours here will be even longer. Thank you, Lieutenant. How long until we must move?"

"Thirteen minutes, probably closer to twenty—_El Alamein_ will swoop in, throw around some firepower, then pick us up." Shepard still had no clear idea of _why _this was happening, only that the asari were lured in by one of their own emergency beacons. They had landed, disembarked, found themselves ambushed, and finally fell back to this abandoned bunker.

Not the first time such tactics were used, and it certainly wouldn't be the last. Probably mercs and pirates looking for salvage—the ship the asari used to get down here certainly was no longer intact.

"I will make sure this team is ready to go, when it arrives. Excuse me." Ceireine got to her feet, her expression grave: Shepard could tell she did not like either alternative presented to her, though she obviously was mature enough to recognize the lesser of two bad choices.

Robbins would probably end up asking the asari to confine themselves to the medbay—a protocol to appease the powers that be—but was it so unreasonable? Because Robbins would present it as a request, first, rather than an order.

Shepard got to her feet before calling her team to huddle by the doors, so Forbes could overhear the plan. He was not the only one looking nervous, though no one questioned the decision. No one wanted to be here if bombs started going off again.

"We're going to move fast, particularly since we've got wounded," Shepard concluded. "Safety first. Understood?"

A chorus of nods and 'yes ma'am' ensued, even Forbes chipping in his nod of comprehension when Shepard squinted at him. _No, before you chew his ass out, find out _why_ he's got such a problem. It may not be unwarranted xenophobia. Check and double check_.

But somehow Shepard doubted things were that complicated.


	66. Heal

Shepard stood ready to fling the door open, and come out guns blazing. The roar of the _El Alamein's_ engines had not yet reached the deafening roar preceding pickup. The plasma cannon hissed and sizzled, setting off secondary explosions. Shepard leaned back, in case of shrapnel. "We're almost ready!"

The _El Alamein's_ engines keened, its dark shadow covering the ground.

"_We're go for pickup!_" Crackled the radio uplink in Shepard's ear.

"Go go go!" Shepard roared over the engines, slamming the damaged door open before hurrying out, shotgun at the ready.

The silver and blue behemoth of the _El Alamein_ hovered two or three feet off the ground, wobbling slightly. Its shape did not allow for it to land easily as the design of other ships; it was meant to _dock_, but the pilot could hold it steady long enough to load people on and off.

Asari and humans hustled past, those bearing the wounded first, Shepard and Forbes—whom she wanted under her watchful eyes—covering the sprint from bunker to the open docking bay, where helping hands pulled the asari and the marines into the bay.

"Go!" Shepard barked at Forbes, who turned and ran, Shepard backpedaling to cover him, before hoisting herself onto the open bay door, shuffling into the bay itself. The doors clanked closed, cutting off the view of the ground.

"Good job, Shepard." Robbins' weathered hand reached down, pulling Shepard to her feet.

"Thank you, ma'am. These are the asari, Ceireine is currently in charge." Shepard picked Ceireine out, motioning to her.

Ceireine straightened, her elegant features bearing a mix of relief and something like uncertainty. "We thank you for your assistance, Captain."

"We're happy to do it. I would ask that you and your crew please stay on the medbay's deck. But feel free to enjoy the mess or the rec-room. Lieutenant?"

"Ma'am?" Shepard's eyes left Forbes, now standing with the other marines awaiting instructions.

"Will you please see that these ladies get to the medbay?"

"Certainly."

"Also, I'd like you to stay with our guests. Ceireine, if there's anything you or your team need, speak with Shepard, she'll see what we can do." Robbins inclined her eyes, before her eyes, too, drifted over to Forbes.

Ceireine nodded, starting to look tired, now that the pressure was off.

As Shepard took her dismissal, leading the asari and the crewmen helping carry the wounded asari, Robbins quietly addressed Forbes. "I'd like a couple words with you. In my office."

Which solved the problem of whether to chew his ass herself or let Robbins do it.

--J--

The medbay was ready for the injured, Dr. Cardwell briskly directing the crewmen, then the asari with smooth professionalism.

"I'm sorry it's so crowded," Shepard murmured to Ceireine, who stood near the medbay door, overseeing the doctor and his aide as the asari were either issued bay gowns—then directed behind a screen to change in privacy—or helped into them, in the case of the ones who were not conscious.

"We asari are used to close quarters. It does not trouble us."

"And you, young lady," Dr. Cardwell shuffled over, carrying a soft cotton gown, which he handed to her. "Just over here, you can step behind that screen while you change…hmm," he paused, taking hold of Ceireine's face, tilting it this way and that. "Minor bruising and burns—we've got just the thing. Off you go," he shooed her off, leaving the asari looking wholly perplexed.

"It's okay; he's always like this," Shepard tried not to laugh at the expression on the asari's face. It was one reason no one on the _El Alamein_ was even remotely afraid of or intimidated by the ship's doctor. He rarely poked about to see if something hurt. He even more rarely gave the impression of worrying, which kept his patients calm.

"…Lieutenant?" he peered at Shepard, as though just having noticed her.

"The Captain asked me to stay here to serve as the liaison between the asari and the crew."

"Ah, well, we'll find you a chair, if you'll just give me a moment…"

Shepard knew better than to expect the chair. Dr. Cardwell was a failed soldier, an accident having put an end to his field work—hence why he shuffled as he did. Unwilling to leave the Alliance, he simply changed fields. To his surprise as much as anyone else's, he found he had previously missed his true calling. He was a fantastic doctor—if a little absent minded for things that didn't bleed, groan, or die.

However, with the asari, Dr. Cardwell's skill shone like a pearl in a velvet box, his calm manner seeming to encourage healing like sunlight encouraged plants to grow. From refilling asari circulatory systems with syntheblood, to administering painkillers—all Alliance doctors had basic xenobiology certifications—to seeing the more mundane conditions of exhaustion and dehydration.

"Oh...Lieutenant…" Dr. Cardwell re-noticed Shepard standing just inside the door. "Excellent, another pair of hands…would you be so kind as to put in a word with the galley. These ladies will be taking lunch in here, as quickly as possible please. We need to get them fed before they can really start healing you know—terrible thing those cold rations. Never taste right, either," out of a pocket came Dr. Cardwell's datapad, upon which he scribbled a note to himself, so he did not send someone along in another five minutes with the same mission.

Shepard, still trying not to smirk at the doctor's idiosyncrasies, stepped out of the medbay to do as she was told. She had little to do until Dr. Caldwell was finished fussing over the asari. His aide buzzed about in his wake.

Some doctors within the Alliance simply numbed up your pain, or gave you something for nausea, or more likely gave you a sugar cube laced with a painkiller—like the doctor on the _SSV Midway_.

Dr. Caldwell was one of the doctors to see if you wanted to _heal_.


	67. Words

Shepard sat near the door of the medbay, dozing in a chair. Relief that none of the asari were going to die, coupled with Robbins' assurance she had 'had words' with Forbes when left Shepard's mind relatively free of worry.

"Is anyone there?" The asari voice was scarcely a whisper in the dim light of the medbay. Dim, but never dark, green lights rendering things in shades of pure color or dark shadows. Shepard knew that the lights were only green because Dr. Cardwell insisted that light in the medbay be easy on the eyes of patients trying to rest. It made it difficult to read, perhaps, but this was not a library.

"I'm here." Shepard got to her feet, striding over until she caught the reflection of green light in open eyes. "What can I do?" This was the same asari whom Shepard had patched with medigel.

"Water please…" she whispered.

Shepard nodded, fetched a glass and a straw—as Dr. Cardwell had instructed—then returned, clicking the controls on the bed to lift the asari's shoulders. "They can pump you full of liquids to keep you hydrated, but it never does help with a dry mouth." Shepard held the glass, and was glad she continued to do so, for the asari's fingers could not seem to tighten properly. "I've got it, you just drink."

Looking mildly frustrated at her inability to manage, the asari obeyed, sucking on the straw for a few moments before settling back on her pillows, licking her lips.

"You want me to change the controls?" Shepard set the glass on the nearby bedside table—more of a counter than a table, but serving the same purpose.

"No, this is…more comfortable." She shifted for a moment. "Where are we? This place is not familiar."

"You're on board the _SSV El Alamein_. We're orbiting while we wait for the _Remembrance_ to come back for you. We thought it'd be safer. Should be here in another nine hours or so."

"I see. And the others?" the asari looked around, stopping when the sudden motion pulled on the medigel patching her together.

"Fine, no casualties. We got everyone out all right." Shepard assured her. "Is there anything I can get you?"

The asari sighed, relieved to hear there were no casualties, closing her eyes. "No, thank you."

Shepard shrugged, turning to walk back over to her chair.

"Where are you going?"

Shepard stopped, glancing back at the asari. "You've had a hell of a day. I figured you want to catch some more sleep."

The asari shook her head. "Stay, please. Words…block out the quiet of the darkness." She waved.

"Ah, let me get my chair." Moving quietly so as not to wake any of the others, Shepard retrieved the chair, then set it facing the wall so she and the asari could see each other without either having to crane her neck in a strange position.

"How do they call you?"

"Shepard. Jalissa, sometimes."

"Jalissa." The asari gave the impression of rolling the name around in her mouth, getting a feel for it, as she might do for an exotic tidbit of food. "I shall call you Shepard, if you don't mind." Shepard shrugged. "I am Lysana."

And she was staring. Shepard hated the feeling of asari scrutinizing her.

"I don't meant to be rude."

"Huh?" Shepard swished he had come up with something a little more articulate.

"Humans. They squirm when surveyed." Lysana chuckled, revealing very even teeth. "It is only, your kind are so transparent. Short lived races usually are. It is…refreshing."

Shepard did not know what to say to this, except the obvious, but Lysana looked ready to laugh again.

"I see what you're thinking, Shepard. 'So, you don't mind humans'? You've not been around the galaxy very long, have you?"

"A few years. But I don't see a lot of nonhumans, not in a conversational setting anyway. We're usually out in the Traverse." It still felt as though the asari was reading her mind.

"But you know enough not to call a nonhuman 'alien' to their face."

"I don't mind nonhumans."

"I can tell," Lysana reached for her water, but Shepard beat her to it, handing it back. This time Lysana made sure she could hold it on her own before taking it. "Thank you. So, tell me about yourself."

"It's not good material for a late night story. Too many dead bodies. What about you? What brought you all the way out here?"

Lysana's eyes flickered away from Shepard's for a moment before she answered. "Work."

Shepard recognized a stonewalling tactic when she saw it. "I get it."

"Do you?" Lysana shook her head. "Very well, perhaps we should find more neutral topics. I am not ready to face the silence, yet."

"Yeah, a dark, quiet medbay does get sort of creepy."

"Creepy, yes. Tell me, what was it like for you during the Blitz?"

Shepard had not realized the asari recognized her from the vids in this odd lighting. "It was busy."

Lysana arched her painted eyebrow, bemused. "Just 'busy'?"

"Well, it was loud, too."

Thankfully, Lysana gave up on this topic , either because she had gotten the answers she wanted or because she recognized Shepard was not going to discuss it. "My group could use people like you, Shepard."

Shepard gave a wry laugh. "Thanks…but I don't think I could do anything one of your commandoes couldn't. They're tough." Tough in a way Shepard knew she could not emulate. Birds of a feather, let them flock together.

There was no way she would shave her head and spray paint her skin blue to fit in, either. The image nearly made her laugh.

Lysana gave Shepard another assessing look, a faint smile playing about her mouth as though amused by a joke Shepard did not get. "No, perhaps not with the commandoes. So what do you humans discuss, in situations like these?"

"Have you heard about the new Nexus omni-tool?"


	68. Rejection

PFC Dresden Forbes watched malevolently as Lieutenant Shepard and her party of three enlisted servicemen wheeled the Mako into the garage of the _SSV El Alamein_. His stomach churned, burning with anger as Shepard climbed out of the passenger side, peeling off her helmet, an indulgent smile on her lips as she listened to what Partridge was saying. Shepard liked taking the newer members of the crew out on these minor expeditions, getting their feet wet with minor things on the Alliance's to-do list.

Being told by Shepard, when he reported in to take his usual place on the team, she did not plan on taking him along rankled.

Shepard watched Forbes sulking, eyeing her with all the malevolence his nineteen-year-old self could muster. Let him. After the problems she had with him while dealing with rescuing the asari, she had no desire to take him anywhere until she was sure she could leave him on his own.

Right now, she intended to let his indignation stew, fermenting until he got dumb enough to say something. Yes, Commander Robbins had spoken with Forbes, she herself had given him several well-phrased hints.

But nothing stung like rejection. Forbes was ambitious, but he lacked a lot of tact. He also came from a nonhuman-hating home. He should have stayed army, or joined Terra Firma if he hated nonhumans so much. That way, he'd either rarely run into them, or run into them with the intention of picking a fight.

He wasn't Commander Robbins, he wasn't a bare-knuckle boxer, and the first krogan he mouthed off to you kick _him_ in the head. Guarantee that, unlike a krogan, Forbes wouldn't walk away from something like that.

Unfortunately, he was Alliance Navy. He was also a private first class on the _El Alamein_, which made him _her_ responsibility, as the usual overseer and trainer of away teams. Which meant if he had bad habits, life threatening habits, or mission detrimental ones, it was her job to correct them.

So, she let rejection sting. She could see it in his eyes. At the moment he hated her more than anyone else in the galaxy.

"It's a good haul, right El-Tee?" Finch asked, her teeth bared in a smile which meant, for her, the whole thing had been a vid-class adventure, from permission to coordinate the Mako drop, to being allowed to wheel it back into the garage, safe and sound.

"Fairly good. Couple more drops and you can land that thing on a pin's head." Shepard's encouragement made the eager-to-please soldier beam even more broadly, before she turned and headed over to struggle out of her armor, chatting amiably with the other members of the away team.

Shepard strode over to Forbes. "Something on your mind, Private?" She kept her tone neutral, as pleasant as possible. The level gaze she fixed on him made it all too clear if he said 'yes' she was going to move the conversation somewhere where there were fewer people to overhear.

For a moment Forbes looked caught between stalking off and spitting poison. "Yes." He answered stiffly.

"We'll talk in the mess." She waved him ahead of her.

The mess was nearly empty, being between meals. Shepard leaned on one of the tables. "All right, Forbes. What's up?" She waved her hands indicating he had her undivided attention. Now, if ever, was the time to find out if her attempts at learning diplomacy yielded any fruit. She hoped so: Forbes had talent, if they could just get his head where it belonged.

Forbes fumbled for words. Now it was apparent he and Shepard were about to have A Talk, he found himself remembering _who_ exactly she was to the outside world, what she'd done, within the military world and outside of it. It suddenly seemed a very bad idea to say exactly what was on his mind.

"Feeling rejected, that I didn't take you with us?" Shepard's gentle question intruded on Forbes' thoughts.

He nodded sharply. Close enough.

"I haven't _rejected_ you yet, Forbes. I'm waiting for you to decide where your priorities are." Shepard declared.

"Ma'am?"

"Your priorities. What's more important? Antagonizing nonhumans, or advancing in the Alliance?"

Forbes shifted uneasily.

"Come on, Forbes. There's a reason I'm not doing this in front of the away team," Shepard prompted.

"I want to advance."

"That's good. And I'm sure you'll do it, because you're a driven individual. Do you really think you can advance if you make the Alliance, or our Commander look bad?"

Forbes opened his mouth, realizing this was _exactly_ what Robbins said, after the asari came aboard. "I've heard this, Lieutenant."

"Were you listening at the time?" Shepard cocked her head.

Forbes' face took on an angry flush.

"I left you here so you'd have time to think. I won't chew you out in front of an audience, but I'm the one who has to talk fast when you insult the nonhumans."

"Lieutenant…"

"I'm not saying you have to _like _them, Forbes." Forbes blinked in surprise. "I'm saying, a lot of them hate us, they think we're jerks, not to be trusted…sound familiar?"

"I don't…" Shepard let Forbes stammer into silence.

"May I give you a suggestion?"

Forbes nodded once, more because he was still trying to think of what to say to her last remark. It was hard to combat, when she put it like that.

"You don't have to like them. I don't like all of them. But I _do_ like defying expectations. And I think you can appreciate the looks on people's faces when you prove them wrong."

Forbes found Shepard still regarding him with that assessing expression. He nodded.

"So prove them wrong. Yeah, you don't like them…but you'll do what's expected of you."

Forbes considered, then nodded again.

"Anything else?"

"No ma'am."

"All right, then." Shepard eyed Forbes again, and then turned to head back to change out of her armor. She hoped they wouldn't need to have this talk again.


	69. Are You Challenging Me?

Lieutenant Shepard sat comfortably in a bar in the volus-run port of… She wasn't sure she could pronounce the name of the port, and so told the gaggle of privates first- and second-class she was babysitting—which included Forbes—to call it The Credit Vacuum.

Exactly what Chief Arbor said the first time she asked how to pronounce an unintelligible port.

"Relax, Forbes," Shepard muttered in an undertone, as a krogan lumbered by, while two turians argued pleasantly (and volubly) near the bar. It was plain none of the junior servicemen had ever seen so many nonhumans in one place, which formed the basis of Shepard's reason for babysitting them at all.

All four of them, Forbes, Finch, Partridge and Meyers, were Earth-born, Earth-bred and never set foot in a port like this. Meyers and Partridge seemed all right, their eyes riveted to several of asari drifting around, in clothes Shepard knew she could never squeeze herself into and still manage to look good.

Finch sat directly on Shepard's right, closer than Shepard would have liked, because her elbow kept knocking Finch's drink as she poked away at her omni-tool—though Finch failed to notice, her green eyes agog at the plethora of nonhumans milling around. She seemed to think that, in a strange place, sticking close to the officer in charge was her best bet.

"Lieutenant Shepard?"

"That's me," Shepard raised a finger to direct the waiter—a human—who beamed at her and set a very colorful drink on the table, followed by a small dish of fruit on skewers. "Thanks."

"Not at all, ma'am."

Shepard picked up one of the fruit skewers from its plate, and took a judicious sip of her Astro-Fizz. She hated the unbottled stuff…they never tasted quite right. "You're goggling." She directed mildly at Forbes, who shook his head as if to say 'no I wasn't' then looked around, before his eyes fell to the table. "Relax, Forbes."

"My _neck_ is _prickling_," Forbes hissed when Partridge, followed immediately by Meyers, got to his feet—probably to chat someone up—or try to.

"I know, it's the same feeling I sometimes get—four-eyed uglies, back of my neck," Shepard waved. "They're not interested in you. Have a skewer. Finch?" She pushed the little plate forward.

Finch apparently had not heard, still goggling at all the nonhumans, but Forbes, looking resigned, took a skewer and eyed it, as if he couldn't quite believe where he was, or what he was doing.

"This place is _sooooo_ exotic!" Finch cried a moment later, directing her attention at the still-uncomfortable Forbes and the unperturbed Shepard, still playing with her omni-tool.

"It's foreign," Shepard's tone held no indication that foreign as a bad thing. "The volus are the economic minds in the galaxy…bankers for hire."

"Really?" Finch looked away from the nonhumans

Shepard resisted the urge to crumple up her expression. How _did _Finch, bless her heart, miss that lesson in Nonhumans 101?

Forbes looked floored too. H also looked as though he wanted to say something, but did not, his eyes roving across the room, fingers seeming to caress his untouched skewer. A sure sign of nerves.

As soon as Finch got up to get another drink, Shepard leaned towards Forbes. "Forbes. I've got five credits here that say you can't relax a little. We're in a bar. It's full of aliens. You're a marine."

"Are you _betting_?"

Shepard chuckled into her drink. "No. I'm not a betting woman…but you're getting close."

It took Forbes a minute. "Wait…are you _challenging_ me?"

Shepard set the five credit piece on the table, then placed a napkin over it. "Maybe."

Forbes pursed his lips. The back of his mind knew what she was doing—using his liking of proving people wrong to get him to take it easy. However, the forepart was hung up on the challenge bit. Five credits might buy him another drink, but…

Here his thoughts piled up, as his wish to prove Shepard wrong came into conflict with the unalterable fact that even if he proved her wrong—that he could relax in a bar full of aliens—she was still _right _because he'd do exactly what she wanted in the first place. "You're an evil officer, ma'am."

"You all right, Finch?" Shepard called sharply, as Finch waved an aggressive finger at a turian. It was so funny to see petite little Finch trying to act tough. "Hey, Forbes, bring that attitude." Shepard got to her feet, but as soon as she did so, Finch broke away, throwing herself into her chair.

"Bastards." Finch tossed back her drink at double the speed she'd tossed down the first.

"What's up?" Shepard asked, her eyes still riveted on the turians.

"Traditional turian assholes, ma'am. You get idiots like that in every breed, I bet." Finch shook her head.

Forbes sat back, glowering in the same direction as Shepard. Two marines glowering seemed to do the trick, the turians leaving the bar within minutes.

"Thanks for the help, Forbes," Shepard murmured, sliding a napkin covering a five credit chip to Forbes.

"No problem." Forbes settled further back in his chair, still eyeing the evil officer. He wanted to ask her about the rumors that she was not so open-minded when it came to batarians, but he didn't. Shepard was many things, but a hypocrite was not one of them. If she had problem with batarians, and knew it, it explained her patience with his dislike of aliens in general.

She was certainly more patient than Commander Robbins.

A slow smirk spread across Forbes' features.

"What's so funny?" Finch asked, looking as though the turians had left her stomach churning.

"Nothing. I just enjoy a challenge." Forbes shrugged, still alert, still uncomfortable, but looking much less so.

"Good lad." He almost did not hear Shepard say it, but the indulgent smile on her features told him he had not misheard her.

He quickly pocketed the five credits, which made her chuckle.


	70. Test

"Gimme Forbes." Shepard's words shattered the pensive silence in the comm. room of the _SSV El Alamein_.

Forbes looked up, his heart thudding uncomfortably in his chest.

Commander Robbins' eyes slid to the soldier in question. "You sure?"

"Sure." Shepard got up. "His aim's more than decent, and he's been in live fire before."

Robbins gave Forbes another look, then nodded. "Keep your head in the game, Shepard. Get ready, get going."

Forbes followed Shepard out of the comm. room, down to get armored up.

Not an hour ago, the _El Alamein_ intercepted a distress call from a human cargo freighter. Beset by ships out of the Terminus Systems—most likely batarians—the ship was in full flight by the time the _El Alamein_ arrived.

The Alliance ship disabled as many engines as possible, keeping the hostile from running. At which point the hostiles' so-called captain patched through a transmission: send negotiators, or the hostages would be dead in minutes.

"El-Tee?" Forbes heaved his armor onto the bench.

"Yeah?" Shepard's face was cold as she methodically began to suit up.

"What makes you think they haven't already killed the hostages?"

"They probably have. This is probably not going to end well, but we've got to try. I'm taking you because you're quick on the trigger." Shepard heaved her torso plates into place, fastening the catches with steady hands.

"And I don't like aliens."

"I don't like batarians, either, Forbes. I used to be very good at killing them." Shepard stopped suiting up for a moment.

"Change your mind?" He couldn't stop the question.

"No. I decided I had better things to do than enact a one-woman mission of genocide. So really, you're not the only one getting tested today. How 'bout that…"

Forbes nodded, pride welling up at this chance to distinguish himself. Even if it was only to Shepard and Robbins, as a person who could get things done. "You think they'll negotiate?"

"I think they'll try and blast us to melted marshmallow marines. It's our job to put a wrench in their plans." Shepard pulled her boots on, clipping her dog tag to a strap on her armor, where it would be fully visible—a turian innovation. Somewhat controversial, but it _worked._

Shepard caught Forbes watching as she pulled her assault rifle out of her locker. This was no job for a shotgun, not if there was the slightest chance there were still civilians alive. She didn't dare hope for it, but could not afford to eschew the possibility totally. "It's easy to find, and the chains don't dig in because of your armor."

Forbes pulled his tags off with difficulty, and fastened them in similar fashion.

Shepard forced a suspicion, that the batarians were hatching some daring plan to escape, into a dark corner of her mind. Of course they were, but they had problems. Namely, the _El Alamein_ would blast them to space junk if they killed the marines, the marines would kill _them_ if the hostages were hurt or dead, and unless they could get to the emergency evacuation units, the batarians were trapped like the rat-scum they were.

That was what made this so dangerous. Trapped rats were always more vicious than rats at liberty.

"How come the escort ships didn't stick around?" Forbes shouldered his weapons.

"Because batarians are cowards. They wouldn't want to tangle with an Alliance frigate. And they can always replace lost crewmen." Shepard headed for the airlock, pausing as the ship shuddered, connecting to the freighter. Sealing her helmet, Shepard led Forbes forward, out of the _El Alamein_, into the unknown.

--J--

The batarians guided Shepard and Forbes via the communications system to the cockpit. Shepard saw enough to know most of the humans were dead. One stood amongst the three-man batarian group, any others presumably sequestered somewhere.

Shepard had money on the airlock, to be spaced if negotiations went poorly, so her eyes kept darting to the batarian nearest the consoles, ready to shoot him first, if it came to shots-fired. As for the rest of the batarians, she was fairly sure she knew where they were—slinking towards the emergency escape vehicles. "Well, we're here. How many of the crew are alive?"

"More than you're expecting, I'm certain." One of the batarians—they all looked alike to Shepard—stepped forward.

Forbes focused on Shepard's words, but his eyes flickered between the two nervous-looking batarians behind the one addressing Shepard. He did not dare go for his pistol, lest the motion be misconstrued, but he wanted to.

"Where are they?" Shepard's eyes bored into the batarian's.

"Safe."

"Come on, these are supposed to be negotiations. I'm going to need a little more than just 'safe'. You know that."

"Have it bring up the security feed." The batarian waved to his fellow with his pistol-filled hand, indicating the hostage.

The human was pushed towards a console. Sure enough, the security feed revealed a dozen odd humans in an airlock, with a magnificent view of deep space. It looked like live feed. The timestamp in the corner certainly hinted this was genuine, current footage. Shepard's mind raced, the details of this last exchange pinging around her mind like a racquetball in a game of cutthroat. "All right, you mean business. So let's talk business."

Glancing back at Forbes, Shepard found him resonating readiness, like a tuning fork after being struck. He had not, however, reached for his weapon, though his posture indicated he was ready to shoot the batarian closest to the human.

Shepard took a deep breath, a gesture unnoticed by anyone. Here it was: the big test. Not to see if she was over her batarian fixation, or Forbes could keep his finger off the trigger when non-human nasties got daring, but to see how many humans could be extracted from this situation, when it had such potential to turn into a bloodbath.

Or as bloody as a cargo hold full of humans ejected into deep space ever was.


	71. Spiral

"That's not good enough!" The batarian leader's mouth curved into a toothy snarl, all four eyes angry, and riveted on Shepard's face.

"Well, I'm afraid that's as good as it gets while you've got a hostage here, and who knows how many more _in an airlock_." Shepard's head ached. Surely the idiot knew the instant anything happened to any of those hostages, they—he and his men—were all dead. Surrender was embarrassing, but the Alliance was known to be far more merciful to prisoners than the batarians.

At least if they gave up, they could walk away. Hurt a hostage, and the death warrants were out.  
"We want assurances, something more than…"

"You're lucky to be getting assurances at all, so here's one: if you do this, if you kill the crew, the Alliance is going to track you down, and they're going to nail you. Or someone just like you." Shepard glanced at the digital clock. Five minutes. Five minutes of fruitless negotiations—more like ransom demands. She should have known negotiation was not a batarian art form. Thank goodness they responded better to blunt phraseology and simple words than to mindless diplomatic tap dancing.

Negotiation was getting them nowhere. The batarians knew it, Shepard knew it, Forbes knew it. All this was one last, desperate tactic. The sad part was that the crew in the cockpit honestly expected the crew elsewhere to stick around, and back them up. So when the ship's computer indicated emergency evacuation measures were deploying, they looked more than a little upset. Who would want to stick around with an Alliance frigate out there, and marines in here?

Evidence pointed to the batarians not knowing the ship, something Shepard realized when they had the hostage bring up the live feed.

They couldn't use the tech.

"Well, there goes your backup." This was it, the point at which a choice had to be made. Otherwise this was a stalemate, and they'd be here until the sun went supernova. Frankly, Shepard felt all involved had better things to do than hang around here that long. "You want to start negotiating in earnest…or should we all skip to what we do best, and see how it goes?"

Forbes stiffened at the Lieutenant's tone. He could easily believe she hated batarians, and could just as easily believe she was working to keep it in check. The stony look was not what he was accustomed to seeing.

Shepard's mind vibrated like an engine idling as the batarians weighed theiroptions. She could almost see conclusions forming, as if on a vidscreen above their heads. She could not nudge Forbes' foot, warn him that things were about to spiral out of control. She could only trust he was reading the room.

He was.

Forbes was faster on the draw. Before the batarian holding the human could do more than look at her before he shot her, Forbes' drilled him once in the shoulder holding the gun, and once between the eyes, completely missing the hostage as the woman pulled away. The safest shots a marine could have made.

The hostage screamed, throwing herself as far from the batarians and the fight as she could.

Shepard's pistol jumped free of its sheath. Two shots slammed into the first batarian to pull his omni-tool, the one running the so-called negotiations.

Shepard flung herself to cover, her eyes riveted on the live feed to the airlock.

The airlock slowly eased open. The prisoners had less than a minute. Shepard abandoned her firearm for her omni-tool. Her stomach clenching, she keyed rapidly, until finally the tool beeped. Popping her head up, she found Forbes trying to calm the screaming, sobbing hostage…and the live feed.

The cargo bay was repressurizing. She had no way to tell how many people succumbed to the suck of the vacuum. "I've got two dead batarians." Shepard got to her feet. "Where's the third?"

"Bolted." Forbes pulled the hostage away from the screen, though gently. "Thought it'd be better to keep her out of fire."

"Good man." Shepard did not take long to consider, her training bringing to mind the best options for the situation. Options based on the fact she had at least one prisoner running around, without a clear idea where he was going.

Time for _his_ day to spiral.

"Turn on your gravlocks, and get down to that cargo bay; get the hostages out."

Forbes snapped an abbreviated salute before hurrying to obey, cautioning the former hostage to keep a tight grip on his arm.

"Why's she turning the gravity off?"

"Because there's scum running around, and she'd rather have him floating around than walking. Come on." Forbes kept his tone calm, but his stomach fluttered. So _that_ was what it took to be an N. When she'd gone for the batarian with the omni-tool, when she'd gone for her own omni-tool instead of shooting the last one, he'd wondered what was the matter with her. Now he knew, having caught sight of the airlock's live feed.

Back in the cockpit, Shepard eased herself into one of the padded command chairs. "_El Alamein_, _El Alamein_, situation is changed. Emergency measures full of batarians are bobbing around. Requesting pick-up while Forbes and I lock things down here."

"_Report_." Robbins, as was her custom in tense situations where all she could do was wait, answered instead of the mission coordinator.

"The situation tried to spiral out, but it's mostly under control. I'm locking down the ship…" Shepard found the display she needed, "Forbes is getting the hostages," the live feed split, tracking Forbes and his guide's progress, "the batarians were going to space them."

Shepard activated her gravlocks, before deactivating the ship's agrav systems. She felt like a balloon tethered to her boots, but calmly entangled herself in the seat's harness.

The screen blinked red, and Shepard's breath caught in her throat. She did not need to read batarian to know what the blinking white symbols meant. "_Oh shit_."


	72. Sacrifice

"Robbins! Get the _El Alamein_ off this tub! _Now_!" Shepard's mind-numbing horror at the blinking numbers left her no room to consider making it a request. She did not even hear Robbins' response, as she struggled out of the harness, then clunked her way to the dead batarian, relieving him of his omni-tool.

Just because they didn't know the ship, didn't know the systems, did not mean they could not rig it to explode. Shepard's teeth grit together, trying to quell the nausea as training took over, letting her think through what would otherwise be panic.

They did not know the ship, so they'd give themselves time to bold. Batarians weren't into death for honor.

"Forbes," Shepard activated her helmet radio.

"_Yeah?_"

Translate the batarian stuff to galactic-standard… "Forbes. You're going to need to hustle. The batarians left us a present."

"…_oh yeah?_"

"Yeah. Get the hostages, and cram as many as you can into the remaining emergency evacuation measures. I don't want to take any chances." The computer beeped as Shepard wired the batarians omni-tool to hers, a simple data recovery trick for omni-tools with broken displays.

"_I'm on it…how…"_

"I dunno, Forbes. I don't read batarian. Get them out, then get yourself out."

-J-

Shepard gave the impression of steadfast calmness as she delivered the last line. Forbes' stomach was churning. What had they done to deserve _this_? Blowing up the ship they couldn't keep, that had to be classic batarian. It hadn't seemed to surprise Shepard at all.

But it made him feel sick.

"What is it?" Elaine, the former hostage, asked.

"Nothing—the El-Tee's just taking precautions. We've gotta go get your friends, right?" Forbes' efforts to sound reassuring worked, for Elaine made no further reference to the conversation she had not heard. As the misfortunes of this entire mission began to stack up, like beads on an abacus where Forbes could see them, he seriously began to question whether he was in the right line of work.

And whether he would have opportunity to come to a conclusion about that. Every step forward left him waiting for sudden blinding whiteness, and wherever souls lost in deep space went after death.

-J-

"You think they're all right?" Maguire looked up at Robins from directing the picking off or scooping up of the fleeing escape cells.

Robins shrugged, but did not say what she actually thought. Shepard was used to bad situations. Robbins heard the catch in Shepard's voice, could almost see those vivid eyes widening in shock as something horrible appeared before them. Certainly not a batarian, Shepard would have just shot it, and called it part a day's work. Such was her surety Shepard was in deeper than she wanted to be that Robbins had not pressed for details, though she would have liked to.

She also put the _El Alamein_ at safe distance from the disabled ship.

"Commander? Incoming message from Forbes."

"Loudspeaker. What is it, Forbes?" Robbins hands tightened on her console.

"_Just wondering, Commander—are you still picking up escape pods?" _

"Yes. A lot got loose." And some of them were dumb enough to use their light arms—suitable for protecting themselves once they made planetfall—against the _El Alamein_. Not that these little blasts could do much to the hull, except chip the paint—which annoyed the navigator.

"_Well, there's been a little change of plans. Shepard wants to evacuate the hostages—so we're taking whatever emergency measures are left. I think she's just being careful, but I wanted to make sure you knew."_

Robbins closed her eyes, seeing through the half-truth. It was a bomb. Or a self destruct mechanism, or something that would destroy the ship, if Shepard was going to risk putting humans and batarians in escape cells, together, with the _El Alamein_'s guns warmed up in case of trouble.

"All right, Forbes. Thanks for the heads up."

"_No problem, ma'am_."

Judging by his tone, Robbins knew he had surmised as much, though Shepard would not have explicitly made reference to the impending misfortune ticking away. Not if any civilians could hear.

-J-

The numbers blinking down to zero—now in a recognizable format—did not relieve Shepard in the slightest. From what she gathered it was a failsafe activated by the batarian's omni-tool. Anyone without a certain mod of code trying to hack the system would set off the self destruct. The crudest form of shipside bomb one could make, which made Shepard suspect the batarian in question had done this sort of thing before. Done it enough to grow proficient with this ship-class's inner workings, even if the halls and crawlways remained foreign to him.

Shepard's eyes almost did not blink as she watched the screen and the display on her omni-tool, struggling to break up the signal from the timer to the ship's inner mechanism. No civilian ship carried a true self destruct anymore. Not since the end of the First Contact War. Anyone with an omni-tool and the know-how could jury rig explosions. A useful skill for an Infiltrator- or Engineer-class N-operative to have.

Six.

Shepard's life didn't pass before her eyes. Numbers, circuitry overlays, pictures and text on the displays did.

-J-

Five.

Forbes and Elaine reached the airlock. It opened easily, without a struggle, or even serious locking protocols. Forbes' heart pounded as he calmly directed the survivors to get to the emergency escape measures, mentioning no hint of a bomb.

-J-

Four.

Robbins bit her lip as her fingers dug unseen into her palms, the ship just hanging there in space, suspended as though in stasis, with two of her marines stuck onboard with a ticking batarian bomb, about to make the sacrifice no one wanted to make.

-J-

Three.

Shepard's fingers moved faster than she thought possible, not missing keystrokes. Her breathing became labored as the numbers ticked lower, sweat fogging her face shield.

-J-

Two.

Forbes knew it was a futile exercise. No one set a timer in _minutes_.

-J-

One.

Shepard took in a sharp breath.


	73. Breathe Again

_Zero_.

No brilliant lights. No static screaming in dead ears, or the whine of a radio no longer working. There was no blast of searing heat or shredding shrapnel to peel skin back from bones like the rind off a melon. There was only the sound of her own gasped breath, the tensing of muscles bracing for something they could not withstand, and the white noise of panic finally overtaking deathly calm rationale.

And then she coughed, choked for want of air, because her lungs could only hold a breath so long before protesting.

Shepard's eyes moved to the display, flashing zero minutes, zero seconds, white on a red background.

But the explosion they heralded never came. No one could see her try to flop against the console, fighting the lack of gravity, her shoulders shaking with ragged breaths and tearless sobs of relief. That was too close.

-J-

Forbes wished Shepard left the agrav active. He was all right, in his gravlocks boots, and some of the crewmen had them, but most were forced to make do with either hanging off those with gravlocks, or pulling themselves along on the handrails meant for that purpose. It made slow going.

But surely, the lack of gravity would cause the batarian some trouble. He hadn't noticed the conspicuous gravlocks in the batarians' boots – not that he'd paid any attention to their boots.

The echoing silence, the lack of explosion or feedback from Shepard struck him as ominous.

"We're almost there." Elaine's voice needles his perturbed thoughts, but the words did not mean much to Forbes, who, among all of them, was still awaiting the blast that would cap off this exceedingly bad day.

-J-

Shepard collected herself quickly, locating the batarian wandering around almost on the other end of the ship, the opposite direction he needed to be. Taking a deep breath, Shepard cued the ship's all call.

"This is Lt. Shepard, addressing the crew…and one scumbag."

-J-

Forbes let out a deep breath or relief as Shepard's calm voice carried over the shipboard communications systems. She sounded like a mildly bored tour guide, not as though she had just saved the ship from utter disaster.

Forbes discovered, in that deep breath, that it was easier to breathe now Shepard was no longer maintaining stony silence.

"_The crisis is over. I'm reinitializing artificial gravity, so please take a moment to prepare for it. Forbes, it's no longer necessary to take them to the emergency escape measures. I would, however, like you to bring the command crew up to the cockpit." _

"And the other batarian?" Forbes cued his helmet radio.

He could almost hear Shepard smile, as she continued over the loudspeaker. "_He's not going anywhere._"

"Will do, ma'am."

-J-

Shepard gave the crew another few seconds to prepare for the reactivation of the agrav, then ran the protocol, dropping a half inch or so back into the padded command chair. It was so much easier to breathe again, even with the numbers blinking aggrievedly at her on the screen.

Never mind – she had a batarian to sequester. Humming off-key the whole time, she locked down that end of the ship, trapping him like a rat in a maze.

-J-

Robbins's nerves were pulled as taut as they would go. No explosions. No radio signals. _Nothing_. It was as though the ship was _empty_, whatever scans indicated to the contrary_._

"_Lt. Shepard to the SSV El Alamein. I'm glad to report situation normal." _Shepard's voice crackled over the loudspeaker, but she sounded as collected as she ever did.

The heavy sighs, and the sounds of people resuming proper breathing patterns was audible on the bridge. "This is Robbins. The batarians?"

"_In the escape cells, or dead. I've got one locked up in a closet somewhere._" Normally she'd have joked about gift wrapping him, but the fact she did not told what sort of day it was.

"Hostages?" Robbins toes in her boots curled with anxiety. 

"_They're with Forbes. He's bringing the command crew up to the cockpit now. I'll have them radio you, once things've settled down a bit. If that's all right."_

"Fine. Let's get this cleaned up." 

"_Aye, ma'am." _

Robbins took a deep breath and let it out. Shepard led a charmed life.

-J-

Shepard and Forbes sat together, some hours later, pulling their armor off, wincing and groaning with stiff muscles after a very rough day. "I hate zee-gee." Shepard groaned as she pulled her boots off.

"I nearly flunked out of it." Forbes hunched on the bench, elbows on his knees. "Can I ask you something, El-Tee?"

"Huh?" Shepard stopped unfastening her other boot, to give Forbes her attention.

His face was pasty pale, as though he had not yet recovered from his fright, a sharp contrast to Shepard, who, apart from being sweaty and disheveled, look as though she were merely finishing off a long day at the office. "Do you…even wonder if you're in the _wrong_ line of work?" He felt stupid asking, but if he had to ask –he felt like he'd burst if he didn't – Shepard was the one to go to.

She wouldn't hassle him about having doubts.

Shepard's mouth curved into a smile, lopsided because of the small scar that gave her her signature smirk. "Twice a week, every week." She returned to unfastening her boot. "_ At least. _It's a good question to ask, Forbes."

Forbes, looking heartened, resumed peeling his armor off.

"You did good. Really good."

"So…did I pass the test?" Forbes thought he had, but he wanted to hear it from Shepard.

"Huh?" Shepard frowned, completely broadsided by the question. "What test…oh, oh, that…" she waved when Forbes arched his fawn colored eyebrows. "Yeah, you passed the test. Flying colors."

"So…now what?" Forbes watched Shepard stand and began separating the detachable plates from her armor.

"Now…we breathe again. Never admit to anyone how scared you were…and grab a shower at first opportunity." She wrinkled her nose as she slid herself free of her armor.


	74. Pen and Paper

Lieutenant Shepard sat in the mess hall of the _SSV El Alamein_, datapads littering a sizeable portion of the table at which she sat. It was times like this that made Shepard wish for pen and paper, as antiquated an idea as both were. At least then she could see the futility of her search for the perfect words piling up.

Or throw them in frustration. You couldn't throw a datapad – or rather shouldn't – in case it hit someone. Wadded up paper did far less damage.

Shepard eyed the datapad malevolently, before getting up to pour herself a cup of coffee. It left the inside of her mouth prickling. Certainly not the best coffee in the galaxy, but then again, it was standard issue. At least it wasn't the bottom of the pot.

When you lived in close quarters with people for months on end, you learned not to leave an empty coffeepot on the warmer. It tended to irritated one's coworkers, and make no mistake: _they would find you_. In a confined space like the _El Alamein_, all they had to do was ask the pilot to keep an eye on the coffeepot. And pilots liked their coffee hot and ever-present.

Grimacing at the strong flavor, Shepard returned to her seat. She never did like putting milk or sugar in her coffee. Not when she was using it to think, or keep awake, anyway – yet another habit picked up from navy life. She remembered very clearly a time when she couldn't stand the taste of coffee, good bad or indifferent.

It was around the same time as she had hated Astro-Fizz.

Shoving thoughts of refreshing Astro-Fizz and greasy barbecue aside – what a combination! - Shepard returned to the problem almost literally at hand. Something that, as an officer, she ought to have learned how to do ages ago: write a commendation. Unfortunately, she didn't come in as an officer, so somehow or other, the lessons for this sort of thing either never materialized, or she was on painkillers during the crash courses in the earlier part of her career.

One was as likely as the other, but knowing would not help her _now_.

The trouble was hitting the right note, without sounding as though she were gushing. The digital analog on the wall informed her she'd struggled with this for nearly three hours, and Capt. Robbins would be happy to let her struggle with it, until Shepard waved the white flag and went to ask for input.

Which Shepard categorically did not want to do. This commendation was yet another an exercise in diplomacy, and Shepard refused to be licked by diplomacy. It served her well – though not always as well as a shotgun did. She decided the trouble stemmed from the fact she was dictating to a datapad, rather than to a person, and of the two, only she had a gun.

Negotiation was easier when everyone had a gun. It made you careful, cautious, and sometimes even respectful of the person on the business end of your firearm. Mostly because _you_ were on the business end of_ theirs._

Shepard glowered at the datapad, upon which Forbes' unfinished letter of commendation for bravery and heroism lay unfinished. Yes, she felt he deserved it – particularly since they'd both almost died, and since most of the hostages ended up surviving. That took nerves and a certain kind of crazy.

A certain kind of crazy requisite for a marine.  
Certainly, she'd put people forward for awards or medals before. Working with ground crews put a person in a position to see the things that deserved special recognition. But writing the commendation letters was always hard, because of the risk of sounding disingenuous.

Shepard erased the last few lines she'd entered, then began to chew absently on the end of the stylus, pausing only to take a slurp of coffee.

Pen and paper. Oh to be able to throw paper wads instead of datapads. And Robbins was probably all too aware that she was struggling. Well, she'd happily struggle, so long as she made some headway. Sitting back, Shepard rubbed her eyes, dredging up from some half forgotten corner of her mind the writing skills taught in public schools.

It was a place to start. You didn't simply stop using the skills, after all.

Who? Forbes. Best to include his rank and full name.

Did what? Shepard scribbled a condensed version of the report, only choosing more robust phrases than she would in a bare-bones tell it like it is mission report.

When? She added the date at the top. This would have been so much easier with pen and paper – far less erased scribbling, and forgetting where she left off.

Where…she already said where.

How? She'd got that too.

So _what_ did she think should happen _now_? The answer came more easily to the stylus, making Shepard wonder whys he'd struggled so hard for so long. She wanted him to receive the medal for…

She filled it in, scanning over the almost complete letter, then adding the salutation. Couldn't be a letter without one of those. Robbins would definitely leave any and all written commendations to her from now on, perusing them only to make sure they hit the right notes, before forwarding them on to the people responsible for such things.

Shepard drained her coffee, but did not rise to refill the blue mug emblazoned with '_SSV El Alamein_' in white. Maybe it _was_ the _fresh _coffee. The bottom of the pot sludge must impede thought processes, instead of speeding them up. She'd have to remember that in future.

How easy had this turned out?

Or perhaps, it was less ease of writing and more a desire to protect her fellow crewmen from assault with a deadly datapad. Paper wads bouncing off heads and pencils laying snapped and useless on a tabletop were far less dangerous than flying datapads. Especially if the datapad was thrown round by an irritated marine.


	75. Trouble Lurking

The sandy world stretched flat to the horizon beneath a sulfur rich atmosphere. All in all, a place to wear one's helmet, sunscreen, and carry a couple gallons of ice water. Unfortunately, marines so very rarely had anything but the helmet, when dropped onto a world like this.

No one could call it a vacation spot. Leave here, even of a few hours, would be more like a punishment than a reward. Best to save daydreams of sunscreen and cold drinks for more hospitable places—preferably somewhere with a beach, as opposed to the galaxy's largest sandbox.

The unbroken barrenness of the place would have sent First Lieutenant Shepard in search of better new worlds to investigate, or consider for colonization. In this sandy rock's favor, though, were mineral resources the Alliance would take an interest in. If it weren't for those precious resources, the Alliance would have followed the opinions of these three marines, packed up, picked up, and pulled out.

At least the safety glass comprising the Mako's small windows darkened in response to the direct sunlight, so no white spots interfered with the driver's vision. A digital interface gave the gunner a perfect view without a window and without glare.

With Finch driving, and Forbes riding passenger—leaving Shepard to handle the turret—Shepard expected a fairly routine mission. In fact, it was for this reason Finch was driving at all.

Finch hated driving the Mako, after all, and hated even more piloting the drops. Exactly why Shepard made her do it. Finch alone did not mind riding passenger—or shotgun, as they called it when Shepard took that position. Finch did not even mind manning the turret.

But she hated driving the Mako, start to finish. The number of displays the driver had to manage terrified her, giving her too much she might overlook. Most of the trip so far—uneventful as it was, was dedicated to trying to keep an eye on all the data she was fed on the dashboard, and cursing herself for not appreciating a gamer brother as much as she should have.

Even more, she cursed herself for not asking for tips, rather than shunning the stupid first-person shooters and driving simulators. Walt was right: she regretted not playing more games as a kid, now she couldn't go back and do it over. Life did not have quicksave, not did it have quickload.

At least, Finch thought ruefully, watching the still bright sand move along, like fabric passing beneath a sewing machine's presser foot. Some help home ec. was _now_.

Forbes, with nothing better to do, ignored the vista of nothing in favor of the instruments which werethe copilot's responsibility. Namely tracking, locating, and an alert for anomalous signals. "All right, we're coming up on the first site," Forbes announced, glancing over the panels. "Veer east, Finch."

Finch accordingly veered east, dragging the Mako to a halt as the ground dropped slowly down, revealing dark patterns on the sand. "What'd they say was down here?" Finch asked.

"In this region, copper deposits," Shepard answered, rotating the turret for a look all around.

The sand glittered, distorted, making her grateful for the air conditioning. If nothing else, for all its failings, the Mako had air conditioning, and heating. So let the environments be hostile; the Mako might be cramped-uncomfortable, but it was rarely temperature-uncomfortable.

"Take us down slow, Finch, the ground looks a little rough," Shepard mused after a moment, deciding the best way to soothe Finch's nerves would be to talk to her, rather than let the cabin be silent, as often happened when Forbes drove.

Forbes, seeing what Shepard was doing, nodded but said nothing. It was certainly rough for sand, anyway. The dunes seemed steeper as the ground swept away in a long ramp to the horizon, heat waves somewhat distorting the whole swathe of land.

"Aye-aye, Lieutenant." Finch set the Mako moving again. The Mako could handle the sand just like it handled snow. Nothing but steep vertical grades worried the Mako, if someone competent was driving. She considered herself confident for a flat straightaway, wherever else skill and confidence might be lacking.

Shepard rotating the turret to keep it in line with the front of the vehicle, zooming her display to pick up details. "Make for that really dark spot…about two hundred meters ahead." The ground did look fairly choppy—but then again, sand moved.

Before Shepard could register what was wrong with the picture, the ground exploded. All she could see were the thick, greenish-yellow banded belly-scales of a thresher maw. A big one—though any thresher was 'big' and fear made it look all the bigger. Of all the ambush predators in the galaxy, threshers always had a reputation as being some of the worst. The reputation only got blacker after Akuze, less than a year ago.

Shepard's shouted profanities and Forbes' far more eloquent assessment were hidden by Finch's shrill scream as she slammed on the brakes. Shepard would have liked to scream like Finch, but too many years as a marine tempered her against this knee-jerk reaction. Swearing loudly did not unnerve teammates as much as screaming wildly. As an officer, she knew this when she could think straight, and subconscious took over when she could not.

One thought pierced the momentary white noise and white light of rising panic: she should have known this mission was too empty, too routine. Murphy loved throwing a wrench into things. This was all because _she_ insisted on letting Finch drive.

Of course there had to be trouble lurking, and thresher maws were more trouble than anyone wanted to deal with. But this was not Akuze. She would not _let_ it be. And it was only one thresher, though that was bad enough. Gritting her teeth, her hands tight around the controls of the turret, Shepard forced fear out of her mind, to reemerge as a sense of nausea in the pit of her stomach.


	76. Multitasking

The thresher maw whipped itself around, looking for the source of the disturbance which summoned it from its underground nest. It looked like a creature awakened from a midday nap: not happy.

Unseen by Shepard—her view completely occupied by the thresher maw, as she struggled to zoom the view out so she could see to aim accurately—Finch fought not to panic, while Forbes unconsciously tried to scuttle back into his seat, unable to aid the fight or escape it.

Forbes eyes seemed to pop as Finch mouthed wordlessly, trying desperately to remember what she knew of thresher maws. All she knew, in her horror at seeing one, was that she could see one. And that could not be good.

Shepard recovered first. Having seen things worse than one thresher maw drove out fear given enough time. Before she found her tongue, she found her fingers, cued the mass accelerator cannon and fired.

The recoil of the blast galvanized Finch, shocking her out of her blind panic. The words from the entry on thresher maws, in the jokingly-named Big Book of Galactic Monsters drifted before her mind's eye.

_Thresher maws spit an acidic substance; it is_ _considered their deadliest attribute and so should be avoided if at all possible. Standard issue Alliance vehicular shielding will offer some protection from thresher acid, but it is best to avoid contact, nonetheless._ _Fighting a thresher on foot is not recommended._

Finch, white faced, shifted into reverse, the sound of the machine gun overhead, courtesy of Shepard, rattling in their ears. Her eyes swept the instruments on the dashboard, peril making multitasking in the driver's seat easier. No hint of additional life signs, though the heat outside probably interfered with the sensors—hence why the thresher managed to sneak up on them.

Never mind they were the ones who disturbed it. If they had not, it would have left them well enough alone.

"No, no! Don't back…" Shepard shouted, as she let up on the machine gun, to prevent overheating. The recharging bar for the cannon showed only halfway charged. She wished for a third option, and the back of her mind dictated a suggestion to vehicular research and development for a tertiary option for the gunner.

"Report!" Finch barked, her voice still shrill, but it did not shake.

Forbes shook himself, his eyes sweeping over the various instrumentations. "One life sign, a hundred meters, give or take. Let's hope it doesn't call friends." He had rarely felt so useless, with Shepard alternating between machine gun and cannon, as well as commanding the vehicle, and Finch suddenly scared into recognizing the important displays from the unimportant ones all while backing the vehicle out of spitting distance from the thresher.

The thresher maw, with a shriek they could hear even inside the environmentally sealed cabin, arched gracefully, hitting the sand so hard the grains billowed for a short distance like water. With a flick, the thresher's tail vanished into the sand.

"Stop the car!" Shepard shouted, kicking the back of Finch's seat with her heel.

The Mako stopped, the sounds of the three marines' heavy breathing filling the air. Shepard rotated the turret this way and that, her heart racing. Everyone knew once you saw a thresher, your best bet was not to run away from it—it would simply go to ground and erupt…

_Wham_.

The Mako pitched as the thresher erupted from beneath it. The vehicle rolled and tumbled, knocked about by the follow up bolus of acidic saliva. If Shepard was quick to change weapons, the thresher was just as quick to change tactics. But the bolus knocked the vehicle upright, leaving Shepard able to move, see and aim. "Keep us moving!" She shouted, opening fire with the machine gun, one eye on the cannon recharging bar. "Not too close, but don't let it think it's got to come up under us again!"

Never mind if the orders were only semi-intelligible.

Finch, still multitasking and white to the lips, slammed on the accelerator.

The next acidic attack from the thresher narrowly missed the Mako's tail end.

"Keep us moving! Straight as you can!" Shepard shouted, firing the cannon as Finch brought them swinging towards the thresher. A slamming of the brakes—which nearly planted Shepard's forehead against her console—saved them from another spit of acid, sickly green as it whipped past Shepard's display of the outside world.

Forbes gripped at whatever he could to root himself in place, forcing himself paralyzed so as not to try and 'help' Finch navigate or—which was ultimately worse—try to get out of the vehicle. His eyes, however, darted between displays.

Shepard gave a grunt as she fired the cannon again. This time, success. The shell slammed into the thresher, leaving visible damage to its scales. The thresher flailed, whipping around in pain as Shepard zoomed in, her next barrage of machine gun bullets all targeted at the dark spot oozing dark liquid.

Finch slammed the brakes again, but the thresher's attack fell pitifully short of the Mako.

Shepard's next shot knocked the thresher back, slamming it into the sand. The thresher failed, but could not seem to straighten up. Abruptly it collapsed onto the sand, still as death.

"No, stay back." Forbes reached for Finch's shoulder, but she had not made to take them closer.

"Did we get it?" Finch asked, her mouth hanging open after her sentence finished.

Shepard checked her instruments. "I think so. Forbes."

Forbes checked his own console. "No other life signs, Lieutenant."

"Okay. Finch, take us to the next zone. Forbes, give me an uplink to the _El Alamein_—I want this thresher nest _marked_ for future reference." Shepard did not let anyone hear her sigh of relief. No one could see her sweating every bit as much as anyone.

Still white, Finch cued the next target area on her instruments with less hesitation and discomfort than she had at the outset. Suddenly multitasking seemed much easier.


	77. Horror

Lieutenant Shepard looked up when Captain Robbins dropped a datapad in front of her. With one significant look, the Captain walked away, leaving Shepard to pick up the datapad, and key in. To her surprise, it required security clearance, which made Shepard wonder what sort of bad news it held.

She had never received an encrypted, locked-down datapad containing good news. Never. Bad news usually required lock and key.

The file contained mission reports. Shepard did not want to ask how Robbins had gotten hold of them. All the reports dealt with an extremely recent attack on the moon or Torfan—a well-known hotbed of criminal activity, with a high concentration of batarians.

The report by the commanding officer—Major Kyle—left Shepard a little queasy, wondering again if she was in the right line of work. The official reports read 'retaliation', for the Blitz, obviously. The Terminus Systems needed to know the Alliance would hit back, once they chose an acceptable target.

They were late in doing it, but she appreciated the thought.

The real word they wanted was not 'retaliation' but 'massacre', thanks to some up-and-coming first lieutenant who had a serious problem with batarians. Shepard did not argue with the deaths of enemy combatants. She would do as much, any officer worth their salt wouldn't hesitate to neutralize an enemy. The problem lay in the aftermath. The lieutenant, Eva Rogers, pursued the retreating batarians and eventually ran them into the ground.

Shepard could agree with this part, too.

The batarians eventually surrendered and were disarmed. Whether motivated by the losses sustained during the action (which were high), or by some kind of personal grudge or—Shepard's stomach —because she simply enjoyed killing batarians, Rogers executed the prisoners.

All of them. Some died of single gunshots to the head. Others were biotically warped.

A very batarian thing to do, killing unarmed, surrendered prisoners. It was not as if there were no reinforcements to securely transport prisoners. Torfan was not _that_ out of the way.

Rogers' account was every bit as cold-blooded as the Major's report said she was. Cold-blooded, precise, and thoroughly brutal. Someone who got things done, but did not care about costs: not manpower, not credits, not damages, nothing. The bottom line was all that mattered. Ends always justified the means.

Shepard closed out the reports, setting the datapad aside, cold filling her stomach. It was not a report of so many deaths, the heavy piece of Alliance soldiers paid to secure a decisive victory at Torfan bothering her. She could say she did not approve, but good men and women died for it, and their sacrifices must not be downplayed. What bothered Shepard, and kept her distracted for quite some time, was the uncomfortable notion that if things had happened differently…

_That could have been her_.

Angry and hating batarians, willing to die if she could take them with her, inhibited by the tunnel vision of revenge when they got close to her…she could have ended up just like Rogers. Maybe there could only be person like that in any given place, but she could see a more likely scenario. Two batarian-hating thugs might not have cut Alliance losses, but it certainly would have meant making short work of the batarians.

If she had not wanted so desperately to stay on the _SSV El Alamein_, if she had respected Capt. Robbins one gram less…the horror of the 'what ifs' and 'might haves' crawled up Shepard's esophagus to hammer at her throat.

So close. It was almost her.

Chewing her lip, Shepard repressed a shudder. 'What if' never seemed so frightening as it did now. True, she still fought surges of anger and dislike when it came to batarians. But she also knew if she had them disarmed and secure, she would not have taken the extra step of executing them on the spot, whether they deserved it or not. Not unless her orders explicitly demanded it, because she had _promised to keep herself under control_.

Despite her problems with the batarians she could not applaud Rogers' choice of action, although she did wonder – giving the lieutenant the benefit of the doubt –whether there were extenuating circumstances. Like her own malfunctioning remote detonator, the mission before Robbins gave her the ultimatum.

She did not think there were. The remorseless, pitiless tone of Rogers' report left no room to read in extenuating circumstances. She had done her job, and this was what it took to do it thoroughly.

_They're only batarians_—_they're not even human. They respect one thing, and one thing only. This is a lesson they won't forget. I did my job, and did it well. Given the choice, opportunity, or necessity of doing it again, I would change nothing. _

Roger's own words.

Yes, batarians _weren't _human. Yes, Shepard still considered them the enemy. But that did not make them non-sentient creatures.

The horror pounding at her throat let up for a few moments, giving Shepard time to realize that for a long time, years, she had thought the exact same thing. One batarian life, ten, a hundred, weren't worth one human life.

Alive, those prisoners could have been used to find slaves trapped in some hell of mortal creation. Where there were batarians at rest, there were slaves. _Then _the Alliance could find a way to try them and hang them.

Mindoir seemed so very far away; the stinging pain of it, the periodic reminders having sublimated into a dull ache with which she had learned to live. Squishing this notion, and all thoughts the reports conjured, Shepard made herself pay attention to what she ought to be doing.

Robbins had made her point: she, Shepard, made the right choice. Now she could see what that choice saved her from becoming. It did not comfort Shepard, knowing the potential to be that human-looking animal still lurked beneath the surface.

It unnerved her in no small way to see this almost alternate version of herself.


	78. Precious Treasure

The list of things Shepard found herself expected to do—as a so-called hero (she still contested the word, if only to herself) and winner of the Star of Terra (she would have liked to leave it in its box, to filter down through what junk she kept in her apartment's closet, until she couldn't find it anymore)—was not as onerous as one might expect.

She hated doing military recruitment pitches. When only a small percentage of the human population enlisted, she felt as though she were wasting her breath. She knew very well the officer who'd spoken once or twice at _her_ school had not had her complete attention.

She did not, however, mind visiting grade schools as a 'guest speaker'. She did not do it often—usually a school had to know in advance if she was in the area, and she didn't always know where she was going to be.

She certainly would not have volunteered. Volunteering to speak in front of a crowd was show-off behavior, and Shepard wanted none of that. But she had a soft spot for kids, and if asked she usually consented after a little cajoling.

Some marine, but she smiled as she thought it.

But most days—like this one—it was all right. Talk to the kids, answer questions. At the moment she stood watching one of the lower grades playing outside. Not recess, more something for them to do to keep them occupied, since the day was broken up. Shepard had very vague memories of such occurrences in her own school career—but never because of a guest speaker.

It was like watching pudgy little computer graphics running around, trying to play on the equipment without slipping due to gloves, or getting stuck due to the extra mass of padded jackets. Watching the rain of gloves when the students thought none of the adults were watching nearly made Shepard smile. Who wanted to wear gloves during outdoor activities on a cold day? Fingers could take care of themselves.

It was something to stand here, out of sight and out of mind, watching kids do what kids liked to do. They, at least, did not see the constant pall hanging over human existence the way Shepard did, which gave their antics a far different tone than most would notice.

They didn't know or care that the sky could fall, that it could fill with ships and smoke and screams.

They cared about getting their fair turns on the swings, or the merry-go-round, or whatever.

They didn't worry about the things unseen hovering in orbit, didn't worry about things happening out in space, or a colony on some remote world dropping off the grid.

It didn't affect their daily lives, unless family happened to live on said silenced colony.

With all the crap going on in the universe, all the trouble the Alliance had to keep ships streaming through the Traverse to break up said trouble, what did it matter, when today it was sunny, they missed a few lessons to listen to a 'real life hero' tell them stories, _and_ they had extra playtime?

While no one could see her, Shepard tugged at the collar of her dress uniform. It fit fine, she simply preferred her fatigues. Unfortunately, she also had to present the right appearance, so dress uniform it was.

All the days when Shepard wondered, in frustration or disappointment, what humanity was doing in space when bad things happened—now on a galactic level—quieted and remained quiet for a time when she visited elementary schools.

No, the kids didn't care, or even understand what the Star of Terra was. It was—to them—a way to identify someone who was very strong, very brave, someone who was inevitably compared to parents, and relegated to second or third place in childish estimations of greatness.

It gave Shepard a feeling she could not define, to know that there were still kids out in the galaxy who could think in those terms—not in terms of smoking ruins, or terror of space travel, or the unadulterated petrifaction when monsters came out of the darkness. It eased the burden of lives taken—human or otherwise—to know that back behind the invisible, arguably nonexistent line in the sand where 'safety' started, people really thought they were safe.

Or as safe as you could be, when you couldn't see enemy ships, or read their signatures on monitoring equipment. No sooner had this pragmatic thought dashed across her mind, it was followed by a reminder these kids neither knew, nor cared what sorts of nasty things lurked out in deep space.

They couldn't see it. As far as they were concerned, it didn't exist—they had bigger problems. Like math tests, or quizzes, or the school bully catching sight of them when they did not want to be seen.

Mother and Father could take care of any monsters under the bed, or in the closet, thank you very much.

Ignorance was bliss, and usually ended up fatal.

But innocence was a precious treasure—though Shepard doubted many people would see it the way she did. It should be protected, and allowed to last as long as possible. The universe got ugly—they didn't need to see it, didn't need to know about it.

It was a treasure she was willing to protect, something she would never speak about, or acknowledge publicly, but something needing protection, all the same.

"Lieutenant Shepard?"

Shepard turned, shoving her mental rambling into the nearest cubby where it could not distract her, hitching her characteristic lopsided smirk into place. "I take it the next class is ready?"

The teacher smiled, nodding.

"All right, then." Shepard glanced out the window, just in time to see three students dog-piling on a fourth, who miraculously wriggled out of the heap to take off at a sprint, calling soundlessly back at the others.

Shepard turned away, smiling, from the galaxy's precious treasure.


	79. Light

Aboard the _SSV El Alamein_, Captain Robbins kept her eyes glued to the interface. Waiting. The interface remained dark, but Robbins knew the value of patience. Her crew could not tell if she was simply showing patience for their benefit, or if she had mastered some kind of forced-calm. All they knew was Robbins was not the sort to inspire twitchy trigger fingers, false-starts on the piloting controls, or any other knee-jerk reactions.

Robbins did not even drum her fingers as she waited for the little blip on the interface, the kickoff for the impending lightshow. Lurking up above, in the thinning atmosphere, high enough to avoid detection, low enough to swoop in quickly, the _El Alamein_ waited like a fell predator. Unseen. Ready to fall upon the unwary.

"Report?" Robbins asked calmly.

The copilot checked his instruments. "No word from the ground team, ma'am."

Shepard must be having trouble—though if it were the sort of trouble resulting in a gunfight, sensors would have shown that—Shepard would surely have activated her emergency locator, and broken radio silence.

Radio silence did not bother Shepard. But oh, how Shepard hated going anywhere without her locator active—but in this case it was just one more traceable thing, and neither Shepard, nor Robbins, nor Forbes who had gone with Shepard wanted the ground team tracked.

Even if it meant not letting the _El Alamein_ see her.

The light on the panel still had not turned on. Robbins glanced at her watch surreptitiously. Two hours. Two hours since Shepard cut all contact with the ship. Of course, and Forbes had needed to walk a fair distance—not wanting to tip their hand by driving the Mako up to (or through) the front door. It lacked the subtlety necessary.

Pirates were a suspicious lot, whether they were the stupid kind, or the smart kind.

Shepard contested there was only one kind of pirate: dumb enough to _be_ a pirate when they had to know the Alliance would come knocking on the door, sooner or later, but smart enough to make attacking them a delicate matter.

Mostly because Robbins and Shepard would prefer no one get away. Reports were shorter when one did not have to report on the possible escapees. Not that there was anywhere to escape _to_ on this rock.

Unless they had additional vehicles hidden—though scans hadn't turned any up. But if Shepard could make Forbes and herself invisible—more or less—then the scumbags could hide just about anything in the sandy soil surrounding their prefab base.

-J-

Forbes crouched, sweating beneath his helmet, his skin crawling with anticipation and nerves. The lights overhead flickered, casting strange shadows, among which crept the Lieutenant. The plastic storage crates—and the pirates' general lack of discipline—meant she could have done this job without him. He was glad to be here, even if he understood his role as a precaution more than anything else. Well, an extra weapon never hurt, and it was quite a compliment to accompany an N-operative when doing _exactly _what she did best.

Though, when she'd told him to stay put and keep his head down, he briefly considered she might be crazy. Only briefly, as logic caught up a few moments later. She could move more quietly on her own. If she _did _manage to get herself pinned, he could come around the back and take the pressure off, long enough for her to get out of whatever corner she was in.

Forbes shifted, rifle in hand. Ready. Waiting. Just in case.

-J-

Shepard stepped up onto the crates, careful to make sure she lifted her foot high enough that the overly-thick boot's sole did not drag, making unnecessary noise. Between the flickering lights and the lax guards—gambling where the lights blinked least—she'd completed her objective, or would in three…two…one…the little homing disc adhered to the hidden side of the crate, set in place by a hand just narrow enough to manage the feat. She pressed the activation switch. The apparatus still looked dead—thanks to a little N-class strategic tinkering to kill the lighting mechanism inside it—but the broadcast would not take long to reach the appropriate ears.

Smiling to herself, Shepard silently let herself down from the tower of plastic crates, stacked together like a child's Jumbo Blocks. Four arms or two, pirates were pirates and _these_ were already well into their last drink. Time to grab Forbes and go. She didn't want to be this close for very long.

-J-

"We've got a blip on the charts—homing signal is live." The co-pilot announced to the still-silent Robbins.

"Let me know when we have permission to proceed." Shepard would activate her personal locator. Then, the feedback from the panel wouldn't be the only thing lighting up.

"Captain, we have two locator signals, moving away from the locator. They're either in a hurry, or being chased."

If they were being chased, Shepard would have reported in. Robbins turned on her heel, smiling wolfishly. "Take us in fast."

"Aye ma'am," the pilot didn't take his eyes off his instruments, but everyone felt the ship tilt, artificial gravity keeping them firmly rooted to the floor.

Out of habit, Robbins grabbed the nearest fixed article of furniture, the back of someone's chair, and planted her feet. "Arm all weapons!"

"Weapons armed and ready," came the prompt response.

More to herself, with grim satisfaction, "I want that place _leveled_." Shepard's carefully placed transmitter was going to put the bombs _exactly _where she—Robins—wanted them. Where they would do the most damage.

Precision was a beautiful thing.

-J-

Shepard and Forbes sat enjoying the show, waiting for _El Alamein_ to pick them up. Behind another sand dune the pirates' enclave blazed, explosions popping now and again as unspecified cargo overheated. Overhead the _El Alamein _circled, raining flecks of light at anything still moving.

Or the weapons teams were drawing smiley faces on the ruined building, one of the two.


	80. Questioning

PFC Dresden Forbes listened inattentively as Lt. Shepard gave her briefing. The successful hit on the mercenary base—and the precise way it was accomplished, so they could not alert the two other bases scattered across the planet's surface—made for interesting storytelling. It was the sort of thing one expected from an N-class operative.

It was not the sort of thing he ever expected to tag along for. In fact, now his excitement before and apprehension during the mission died down, he felt rather disconcerted. He hadn't _done_ much, she probably could have completed the mission faster and with less trouble if she'd gone in alone—which was what Capt. Robbins had suggested at the time.

But no, Shepard had argued, she wanted backup. And she wanted him, Forbes. Rather a turnaround from their early missions, though Forbes would admit to having a change of tune himself.

Still, it raised questions. Lots and lots of questions. None of which he wanted to ask in front of everyone else. He wasn't sure he wanted to ask at all, for fear the answer would not be to his tastes. He argued Shepard was always as square with her people as she could be—sometimes confidentiality came into the mix—and was not one to discourage her people from asking questions.

Though, it was understood they should be careful which questions they asked, as with any enlisted asking something of an officer. Still, Shepard remembered _being_ enlisted, and generally showed a lot of tolerance. And it was not as though he was questioning her orders.

"All right," Robbins got to her feet, "file your action reports and we'll get them sent off. Good job."

Shepard rose to her feet, heading out immediately to begin filing the paperwork—though none of it was done on paper anymore. She could tell, from the way Forbes kept twisting his mouth, he wanted to ask her something. She did not ask him what it was, feeling it better to let him come to her. She thought she knew the question anyway: _why take me?_

She was not sure she had her answer ready, but paperwork inevitably came first. Oh, she had a good idea. Namely because, now they had his attitudes well in hand he was exactly the sort who could surpass mediocrity (with which there was nothing wrong—she'd displayed it for years). But he was also the sort who needed a little prompting to get him going—like a mother duck's nudge to get a reluctant duckling into the water. Nothing wrong with that, either.

…_it was at that point that PFC Forbes and I entered the building and proceeded…_

Was it even possible to write these action reports so they weren't dry as toast? Shepard considered; if there _was_ she could become an author after she retired.

But she didn't like to think about the 'R' word. _Retire_. No, she didn't like the word at all—except when it pertained to certain members of the brass. Dinosaurs and armchair commandos who'd never hit dirt and were better at politics than fieldwork.

An unfair observation, relic of her own enlisted days, when she seriously wondered whether the enlisted force of the marines got more brains back after completing boot camp than the officers.

…_the mission concluded with the _SSV El Alamein _directing all weapons to the target, destroying said target. No evidence of survivors. _

Shepard set the datapad down, massaging the bridge of her nose and the corners of her eyes. Now it was all over, the day was catching up to her, and that meant _coffee_. _Now_. Getting to her feet, she glanced back at Forbes, hunched over his datapad, scowling. "Coffee?"

"Please."

Shepard obligingly found their respective mugs and filled them, before returning to the table.

"Does anyone really read these?" Forbes asked, taking his coffee mug by the rim instead of the handle, and sipping at it.

"Only if it was a mission fail report," Shepard responded blandly.

"Uh-huh…" Forbes shook his head.

Shepard leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. The relative quiet of the mess soothed her ears and nerves. Stealthy missions always left her feeling frazzled.

"Can I ask you something, El-Tee?"

"Go ahead," Shepard opened her eyes, giving Forbes her full attention.

He pushed the datapad said, his brow creased with thought. "Why'd you take me with you?"

"I wanted backup."

"You didn't _need_ backup."

"Better to have it and not need it," Shepard responded, but before Forbes could press the issue, she held up a hand, signaling she was not yet finished. "I wanted to get your feet wet."

Forbes blinked blankly. "I've been a marine for a while now…"

"Yes," Shepard nodded, "I know that. But you haven't been a marine _that_ long. You got a five year plan?"

"No…"

"How about a seven year plan?" Shepard sipped her coffee.

"Huh?"

"In seven years, I want to make lieutenant commander. In five years I want to earn the N7 certification. It took me a couple years to decide I didn't want to be Private First Class Jarhead for the rest of my career. So I picked a direction and ran with it."

Forbes blinked. How odd to hear Shepard speak so frankly about _her_ plans. She'd come a long way in a relatively short time. He never attributed this success to some sort of checklist she'd contrived.

"I look at you and I see potential. And when you come to the point where you're tired of being PFC Jarhead, I want you situated so you can choose the track where you can excel. I think you would do well in special operations. That's my job, as one of your officers: to make sure you are in a position where you can excel, so the Alliance may benefit from the expertise you end up contributing. What do you think?"

"I think…you answered my question. Thank you, ma'am."

And gave him even more to chew on.


	81. Waiting

Shepard sat at the transit waypoint, waiting for the conveyance to arrive and take her back to the visiting officers' quarters, from this latest session of N-training. True, she could have walked back to the VOQ with a little gumption, but the fact remained that it was a very long walk, on top of a very long day, and her brain felt about as stable as a plate of jell-o.

She would probably walk right into a duck pond, with mental diagrams clogging up her real vision.

So she sat patiently in the terminal, her omni-tool active, doing a whole lot of nothing in particular, and ignoring the stares she was getting. After awhile, you learned how to ignore people staring without being rude. Today, the people staring considered of a mother and her children – active duty dependants, Shepard was quite certain – and two young enlisted servicemen.

The truth was she was doing exactly what she'd done ever since she discovered it was _possible_: hacking the dummy database set up specifically for enterprising N-operatives to hack. It functioned, essentially, like any database with scores and personal information, but since grades and the pass-fail listings never seemed affected by students' attempts to alter them, Shepard understood it to be a dummy database, active during and for some unknown duration after the training evolution.

Something for the students to play with, when they got bored – and a way for the instructors to shake out who was adaptive, able to improvise and (willing to attempt) overcoming difficulty. Not that Shepard's scores needed help; goodness knew she put enough effort into attaining them.

But it was fun seeing what sort of contained mischief she could create. Of course, the way the dummy database was monitored meant the instructors knew who was accessing it, they tended to ignore such things…unless mistakes were made. Mistakes which could reveal a user in the real world.

Shepard prided herself on not making those mistakes, because she kept herself consciously aware of them. Right now, she was interfacing via a wireless tower, and several signal ports. To track her would take some serious effort, but a program running in the background would let her know if anything tried backtracking along her signal band.

Shepard glanced up to find one of the children still gazing hate her, eyes as round as portholes. She winked at the girl, then went back to what she was doing. The evening breeze blew cool, carrying a hint of rain as well as dust. Planteside smells someone almost constantly in space learned to notice.

Shepard's omni-tool began to beep, prompting her to turn it off, severing the wireless uplink. She smirked at her hands – you'd have to be sneakier than that, to catch her red-handed and tampering with things. Part of her still marveled at how well she'd gotten along with things technological. It was a whole other class of skill than hacking school computers required. If she thought she knew anything useful before the first certification, the notion vanished in a few days.

Yet either she had some kind of affinity for things technological, or she began making little jumps in logic, stringing lessons together like so many glittering beads on wire. Whichever it was, she was _not_ engineer material, and knew it.

With the latest session almost over and the promise of pass-fail datapads being distributed tomorrow, Shepard looked forward to a quiet night unhampered by studying, and pickup by _El Alamein_—already in port—by this time tomorrow.

Which was nice, since a storm spent most of that day brewing near the horizon.

Shepard missed storms, living on a spaceship so many months out of the year, and a space station for the rest. Some people found the noise and flashing light disturbing or unsettling; Shepard found it, in some ways, far more entertaining than things that came across the entertainment feeds. Then again, Shepard knew her reputation onboard her own duty station included 'she's weird'.

So did everyone else's. Captain Robbins seemed to collect weirdoes for her crew and, oddly enough, they tended to work fairly well together.

Shepard turned on her omni-tool again, pulling up the time-date function, then the latest forecast, watching pressure and temperature drop.

At the end of the street the conveyance turned towards them, headlights already lit in the gathering gloom.

Shepard got to her feet, checking that her hat was still on straight, though she needn't have bothered. The bus trundled up to the waypoint, lowering slightly to allow easier access. Shepard let the dependants on first, then followed, picking a seat midway down the almost empty conveyance.

With all the advances of modern technology, mass transit might be faster than a hundred years ago, it might even be safer with regards to accidents, but it certainly wasn't any more comfortable. But it beat walking. The cool, dry air of the interior contrasted sharply with the cool, humid air outside, causing little mists of condensation to appear on the windows.

Once seated, Shepard pulled up another display on her omni-tool, checking to see if anyone was still 'looking' for her back at the dummy database. Sure enough, an active signal pinged back when she made the inquiry, prompting her to shut down her omni-tool again.

No sense trying to get in if they were still looking for her.

It was something she had learned by accident: as much as a student wanted to put one over on the instructors, instructors tended to be more impressed by a student who knew when to back off, and let things die down. Getting caught was never a good thing: better to do small things and not get caught, than to be daring and have the instructors tear you apart for—as this instructor liked to call it— 'playing cowboy'.

Shepard did not mind the time it took to get home. She had all night to earn 'bonus points' for this training session. She was in no great hurry.


	82. Under the Rain

Shepard stood on the balcony outside the visiting officers' quarters, leaning on the railing as the storm raged, all driving rain and whistling wind. She was soaked, but did not mind. The smell of the rain, rich, moist, and earthy, remained something she wanted to fix in her mind. A button in the box of odds and ends she liked to take with her into space.

She did not like living planetside, but there were upsides of doing so even if she wouldn't.

Forked lighting split the sky violently, leaving afterimages across Shepard's vision, as the wind yanked and tugged at her hair, causing the brown mass to frizz unmercifully. The ground below lay obscured in silvery clouds of bouncing water, just as the sky above shrouded itself with heavy, ominous clouds almost black in the gathering night.

The road before the VOQ remained devoid of vehicles, as it had ever since the storm started. Apparently, out here, the storms got fairly bad this time of year. It was safer to simply stay inside, or close to home. Travel was not encouraged, and in the rain that would obscure all windshields regardless of any method of keeping them clear, well, walking was safer.

But who wanted to walk around in this mess? It would soak shoes and saturate clothing to the point of making the individual in question look (and feel) like a waterlogged log. However, for those intrepid few intent on taking in the weather, standing under the eaves of the VOQ watching the storm blow itself into a towering temper, wet clothes were no trouble.

Shepard wisely left her boots inside, content to wear her one pair of civilian clothes and in sock-feet out to watch the storm. Socks dried fairly quickly, shoes and boots less so. And she had places to be the next day, and did not want thoughts about wet footgear intruding on the things she had to do.

Thunder rolled, swelling to a roar before cracking like a whip, lightning appearing in the clouds like a gash revealing some brilliance beyond comprehension. Shepard loved rough weather, the more inclement the better. With the ten-year anniversary of the events on Mindoir fast approaching—and leaving her feeling oddly disconcerted—it was nice to feel colder in the flesh than she did on the inside. The chill proved conclusively that she was still, for all medical intents and purposes, _alive. _She preferred to think of herself as 'existing'. O'Conner would have heartily agreed. 

She had loved rough weather on Mindoir, too, but had hated it for years afterwards. Fortunately, living most of the year on a spacecraft one did not have to worry about thunder waking one up out of a dead sleep. A sudden noise that did not belong in the darkness, triggering memories of other things not belonging in a quiescent setting.

The forecasts all indicated the storm would rage much of the night, but abate by midday tomorrow.

Closing her eyes, Shepard let the drum of the rain on the eaves above, the plunk of the rain on the railings, the near-hiss of it pounding the street below seep into her ears and consciousness. Her hands tightened on the cold, dripping-wet railing separating her from a fairly long drop, making the heels of her hands ache. Water seeped into her clothes and hair, unerringly finding her skin, leaving her chilled but unwilling to seek shelter in the face of the chill.

The sound of wooden wind chimes, deep, hollow, melodic sounds from a remembered back porch on a never-forgotten farm echoed in Shepard's mind, louder and louder until she actually _heard_ one single, hollow note. Her eyes popped open, revealing the gray of the base, the darkness of the street, the complete absence of any sort of wind chime.

The wind kicked up again, having lulled, cutting through Shepard like knives, raising painful gooseflesh on her skin. Shaking slightly from the abrupt chill, Shepard retreated back to the door of her quarters then stepped in, closing the door and removing herself from under the rain.

It was quieter here and much warmer, but she could still hear trickling water on the windows. The change in temperature made sweat stand out on her forehead, mingling with rainwater as it dripped down her face beneath the collar of her sodden shirt. Turning off the lights, Shepard eyed the long, pale bands of twilight draped across the carpet, watched them flash vividly in the next bolt of lightning, felt the thunder rattle the floor beneath her feet.

Shadows of water droplets crawled along the glass, and on the floor, crystal drops holding small dark secrets. For a few moments, Shepard could not break the trance created by watching the droplets slip, slide, separate and converge against the windows. The constant motion, the state of perpetual change reminded her of something, though it was not something she could put into words. Perhaps it was simply idle fancy brought on by chill and a fairly somber mood.

This gray thought broke the trance, allowing Shepard the ability to move freely again. Throwing the lock on the door, she peeled her saturated shirt off, eager to change out of her cold clothes and find something dry.

The feeling of warmth seeping back into her skin from pajamas and ambient temperature reminded Shepard she really was still alive on the inside, because something truly _dead_ would not mind the cold. Unfortunately, as had happened every time she decided to go out under the rain to watch the storm and remind herself that heart still beat and body still maintained a core temperature, the chill went deeper than she expected, and the effects lasted longer.

Well, she had an answer for that, an answer she implemented by fetching a mug from the cabinet over the sink in the tiny kitchenette, filling it, and placing it in the reheating unit. Thank goodness for instant coffee.

Thank goodness again for _decent_ instant coffee.


	83. Out Cold

Lieutenant Shepard limped to her apartment in the housing block on Arcturus Station, the _SSV El Alamein's_ home port. The rest of the crew might feel like gearing up to hit the Arcturus Station party circuit, but all Shepard wanted was a hot soak and a dark place to curl up and _sleep_.

In a real bed with soft sheets, able to take time to fully appreciate wearing comfy pajamas and not having the next shift waking her up so they could have her sleeper pod. The junior officers hot bunked; senior officers were senior, and therefore didn't have to share at all.

The door hissed open, revealing Shepard's unlived-in apartment. Palming the lights to a low setting, somewhere just above dim, she let the door slide shut behind her, dropping her gear inside the doorway. She missed the sunlight of a planetside port, but on the other hand, the _El Alamein _was synched to Arcturus, with regards to the clock. So there was no lag, no readjusting to day or night. You simply got off the ship at the end of your shift and went home, just like any civilian would. 

The air of the apartment hung cold, giving the place an almost cave-like feel with the lights so low. Before gathering clean clothes from the small bureau, Shepard keyed up the heat. Even if the temperature on the _El Alamein_ remained regulated so the cold associated with space travel did not physically affect the crew—even while they were sleeping—something in the brain consistently triggered cold feet while sleeping in a sleeper pod.

Not just in the sleeper pods. The cold feet syndrome persisted in space; it was most noticeable when one tried to sleep.

No one had figured this phenomenon out yet. Attempts to wrap up in a blanket in the pod usually meant waking up sweaty and uncomfortable…and still with cold feet. "We'll have none of that." Shepard's voice disturbed the silence of the apartment like a stone tossed into a still pool, moments before she found the sound system's remote. Soft music trickled from the speakers. Seven years ago, she would have expected the phone to ring, an ecstatic, energetic O'Conner on the other end, elaborating some harebrained scheme for continued the search for the elusive quality of 'fun'.

Five years ago, or even four, this though would have wiped the faint smile playing around Shepard's mouth from her face. Now it simply gave her smile a rueful quality. She never had found that sense of fun O'Conner was sure she possessed.

Not that she tried too hard. The inner geek-nerd won out; wherever O'Conner was, she was probably chomping at the bit to swoop in and try to save Shepard from herself. "Well," Shepard picked in the fridge, finding a few cans of Astro-Fizz in the back (and not much else), "here's to you, O'Conner." She popped the drink and downed half of it in one long breath, letting the fizz tickle all the way down.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Shepard grabbed the clothes off the foot of her bed, retreating to the bathroom. Within moments lavender scented steam billowed around her, making her hack and cough. She enjoyed the momentary discomfort. One a ship, where water needed to be more tightly conserved, you couldn't ever get the experience of choking on steam, of just standing under the water and letting it pummel away at your shoulders.

There were some benefits to having achieved the rank of officer.

Shepard usually avoided perfumes or floral-scented anything while not in port. However now, the calming herbal aroma filled her nostrils, and her sinuses, making her brain relax into goo within her skull. And for once, she did not need to worry about needing to whip it back into fighting form. Arcturus was crawling with servicemen. Only an idiot would try and pull some kind of crap here that would require waking up anyone trying to sleep at the time.

Cranky marines and naval personnel did not take kindly to klaxons going off while they were trying to sleep. All personnel had weapons, either personal or professionally issued. Not to say things didn't happen on the station, they just tended to resolve a little quicker, and be low profile. You couldn't quash human nature, but with sensors and monitoring, it was hard to get away with much.

Which was why Shepard flopped down onto her bed with a 'whumph', taking a moment to simply sprawl on the firm mattress, the thick pillow muffling her breathing. A person started to miss pillows, and sleeping in a prone position, while in space. Granted, in a sleeper pod the chances of sleeping crooked were very low, but one missed the normalcy of _lying down_ to sleep.

Shepard did not get up, but rather wiggled and shifted until she freed the top sheet and bedspread from beneath her, then slithered beneath both, palming the light controls near her bed, so the room plunged into deepest darkness.

Sleep crept up to her like Fitzpatrick the cat, soft on light little padded feet, to settle quietly. There was no darker darkness in which to sleep than that found in personal quarters on a space station. Some people found it uncomfortable, disorienting to sleep in such a dark place, surrounded by space and stars.

Preparing to rest, Shepard tossed and turned for a few minutes, then succeeded in tugging one of the pillows loose, so it lay parallel to herself, one arm crossed protectively over her chest, the other flung across the second pillow. Curled against the soft article, Shepard's muscles relaxed further. Even though her mind knew there was no such place as a safe place, where nothing bad could happen, she also recognized Arcturus Station was certainly as close to 'safe' as a person could get.

For Shepard, this sense of 'close enough' meant she was out cold within minutes. Before the song playing through on her around system even finished.


	84. Mirror

Lieutenant Shepard sat in her apartment on Arcturus Station, with a large bottle of Astro-Fizz, a greasy bag of carryout Relay Rob's barbecued ribs and a small mirror in an empty makeup compact. Shepard notoriously hated mirrors. For too many years, they showed her a woman she did not like looking at. Not because she did not like herself, but because it seemed to show her failed aspirations, stale expectations, shattered dreams, burned cinders leftover from the earlier portion of her life, and far too much battle damage around the edges.

There was the scar by her mouth that gave her her distinctive, lopsided smirk, and the slash across one eyebrow, which gave her an especially quizzical quizzical look. Small nicks peppered her temple near her hairline, where small debris had slammed into the skin, thrown up by a grenade.

And with the lighting like it was, as she sat at the small table, ignoring dinner, the scars seemed even more highly visible than usual. Which was why she hated mirrors. Otherwise she could forget the scarring.

But more than that, she saw things less physical. She saw vivid eyes that held the weight of the world that for so many years threatened to crush her. On bad days it still did. She saw a once soft face belonging to a farmer's daughter, now whittled down to something angular and stern.

She knew the personality had changed, and arguably not for the better. She'd learned how to hate since the childish softness had obscured a strong jaw. She'd learned to bottle that same hatred up, and bear the pain it ended up bringing her, since the mouth forgot how to smile.

And she'd learned to smile again, eventually, though not as often as someone who cared might hope.

She'd learned how to kill, and discovered she was good at it. Who wanted to be _good_ at taking lives? But on the other side of the same coin, that skill had given her the ability to save others. Send them back to their families. Was it worth it? Was it really worth it?

Shepard breeched her Astro-Fizz, taking along gulp as she forced herself to answer the question.

Yes. Because somewhere, someone was waiting for those people to come home.

This made her wonder, not for the first time, how many people who wound up in her way had people waiting for them to come home. Today was a day for taking stock of her life, but this was not the day for answering _that _question. It was one better left unanswered.

Shepard set the Astro-Fizz down, remembering a time nearly a decade ago, when she hated it more than anything in the universe. She hadn't hated it. She hadn't really known what it was to hate something back then. It was a careless word, then, used to express great dislike of something so stupid, so trivial it made no difference to the universe whether she liked it or not.

She never lost her love of greasy barbecued ribs, however, and Relay Rob's was famous for them.

Shepard glanced into the mirror, craning her head so she could see more than her chin, without picking the implement up, as she opened the paper bag containing the plastic shell of ribs. On the up side, it was the face of an N-operative. Most people stalled around N3 or N4…but she hadn't, so it was the face of a very determined woman. She was also an officer, promoted for—so the report said—heroism above and beyond the call of duty. So it was the face of someone who could do her job _well, _regardless how wrong footed she started off.

The tangy barbecue sauce distracted Shepard from her dark musings. If O'Conner were here, she'd be delighted Shepard could have this sort of in depth think while enjoying a rack of ribs. Usually such introspections led her to a dark place where food was at the bottom of the list of priorities.

She had never been put on psych watch. Never been put under observation. Given her personal history that was something, though Shepard admitted sometimes she wondered if she ought not to have gone in voluntarily.

No. No, they'd want to give her drugs, or put her in a room with a bigger nerd than herself asking how everything made her _feel_. That would just piss her off. She didn't need that, no way.

Another slurp of Astro-Fizz. Why had she hated it so much? It was _fizzy_. Yes, it was also technically _diet_ Astro- Fizz, but it still tasted good. Better than coffee and goodness knew she drank a lot of _that_.

Armies could march on their stomachs: the navy ran on caffeine.

She _liked_ being in the navy. Yes, she wanted to stay a farmer back then, to spend her days tearing up ground on Mindoir, fixing on the tractor and harassing her siblings.

But things changed.

Shepard tossed the rib bone into the empty half of the plastic shell, licking her fingers as she glanced back in the mirror. Some hero. It was impossible to eat ribs without getting the sauce all over your face. She had _tried_. Calling it war paint to cover the fact she'd missed a spot while trying to clean the stuff off never worked either.

Dreams and hopes all belonged to someone who no longer existed. Instead, she had ambition, and a determination to excel. These weren't as fulfilling, perhaps, and not as inspiring, but they kept her functioning and kept her out of the psych wards, or so she felt.

Ten years after the sack of Mindoir, Staff Lieutenant Jalissa A. Shepard sat back in a chair, eyeing herself critically in a mirror over a meal of takeout barbecued ribs and Diet Astro-Fizz. As she looked away from the mirror, she decided she didn't dislike the woman looking back at her as much as she had five years ago. Or even four.


	85. Can You Hear Me?

It was one of the most terrifying moments of Shepard's life.

Her breathing was labored and loud in her ears as condensation formed at the corners of her face-shield. Her head reverberated inside her helmet as she ineffectively smacked it, hoping the knocks would somehow restart her radio.

Halfway through getting the next directive from the range master—who was more a mission overseer than a range master—the radio cut out. Just died, leaving her on the lunar surface, surrounded by hostile drones.

Chances were the overseers didn't realize she was off the grid yet.

Bunkered down as best she could, Shepard absently charged her rifle—no shotguns out here. Her options looked bad. If she simply stayed put, they would _assume_ she was waiting for trouble to come get her…and would promptly oblige her. If she kept moving, everything would look all clear until she stopped responding to direct instructions.

The problem was there were no direct instructions apart from the general directives.

As a marine, wandering outside the containment area—which was a long walk anyway—would get her kicked _out. _At this level, _adapt, improvised, overcome_ was no longer quoted at you until you started making excuses. No, leaving the containment area put her at risk of failing this last level.

She was too close to the N7 cert to even _risk_ washing out of the training evolution.

She did not think equipment failure was part of the drill; onedidn't cut a lifeline to see if your marine could walk back to base. The actual base of operations was on the far edge of the containment area, to keep her from trying to hack their systems, as opposed to the course's.

"This is Shepard. I've suffering radio failure; I am no longer receiving your directives. Please proceed to omni-tool reliant communications and advise." She had to try—though part of her suspected if the audio aspect of the unit was dead, the transmission was probably dead too. She pulled up her omni-tool, waiting for it to indicate receipt of her message. A minute passed. Three minutes.

Then the warning on her omni-tool flashed: heat sources scuttling towards her. Stomach dropping, Shepard knew she had one option and one option only: she would have to fight her way to the tower. Either they would think she was breaking the rules to make the right sort of impression, or they would realize there was a problem…

The drones buzzing towards Shepard fizzled, drifting to the ground in the moon's weak gravity as Shepard opted for the expensive, sure-to-piss-off-the-coordinators method of drone-bashing. Rather than use the rifle, which would simply disable the little bots if they caught 'bullets' from it, she did what she was trained to do as a tech, and went for their processors.

Four lights blinked out on the display of Shepard's omni-tool. She stayed crouching, tapping out a message via her omni-tool.

_N6 Shepard. Radio failure. No longer receiving directives. Please advise. _

But no answer came.

Gritting her teeth, irritation welling up like acid in her stomach pursed her lips. The lack of answer made her worry. The power grid was still up—she could see lights on the horizon. Drones were programmed to shut down if the control tower went off the grid, for the safety of the very expensive special operators running around. Shepard did not know how many credits it took to training someone like her, but the Alliance wouldn't want to flush those credits down the tubes because of a preventable accident.

And since she was stuck out here, on her own, out of contact with the tower, and the tower didn't seem to realize it…

There was _nothing _wrong with her omni-tool. It was _hers_. If there was a problem with it, she'd know. More likely, she began to trot along at a mid-speed lope, some egghead was more interested in watching the training evolution than in keeping an eye on his workstation for signs of trouble.

The overseer would be _pissed _when he or she inevitably found out.

Shepard was pissed _now_, so the unfortunate egghead better have an extremely good excuse.

A fellow marine, she snarled, taking out another batch of assault drones by going for their vital systems, would never let something like this happen. A fellow marine would appreciate the fact her _life_ might be in his hands, and would be more concerned with his viewscreen than taking in the view. Armor was, in a lot of ways, more flattering than anything else Shepard ever wore.

If she found out this was _actually_ the case and not just her ranting to herself to try venting the anger before she had to speak nicely to a superior officer…an egghead was going to end up _hurt_.

The tower still had not realized anything was wrong, except perhaps that Shepard was trashing their over-glorified obstacle course, and racking up a high count of credits for all the bots she'd destroyed. Mercilessly. If it wasn't so expensive—and marines were warned to be gentle with the bots—it would have been something to watch.

It was also out of character for her.

"Sir…" one of the technicians frowned, "she's deviating from the course directive."

"What do you mean?"

The technician pointed.

It looked to the overseer as though Shepard was making her way directly for the tower, one place she was not supposed to be. Then again, the point of training an N-operative was to see what they could do when most of the usual restrictions were lifted. Still, it was strange…

Her tracking dot moved off screen. Surely she wasn't planning on taking the tower hostage…it had happened _once_. The marine in question wound up with a broken arm, courtesy of this very same overseer. "Brace for marine," the overseer declared.

Shepard had not struck him as this stupid.

"Can you hear me _now_?" Shepard demanded, practically kicking the door to the control tower open, livid and sweaty.


	86. Annoyance

"Shepard!"

"My radio is dead!" Shepard flung her helmet on the nearest table, angrier than she had felt in a long time. It allowed her to glower unabashedly at the overseer – someone who obviously outranked her. It was plain enough when he put down his coffee cup, if she decided to make a fight out of this, he would oblige her. "Which idiot…" Shepard forced calm into her tone, but only succeeded in diluting the words to a feral hiss, "was supposed to be watching for emergency incoming messages?" Her vivid eyes swept the room.

The instructor looked from the irate marine to a weedy looking youth off in a corner, his expression hardening. If this was true, then Shepard's display of temper was entirely warranted. Those drones might not kill her, but they could do serious damage. And she was not informed whether she was in a live-fire situation or not. Candidates never were at level seven, encouraging them to prepare for the worst. He walked over to her helmet. "Argyle. Silent check." He declared calmly, holding the sweaty helmet up to his ear.

The technician cued the emergency frequency, which would sound to the ears inside the helmet like a series of beeps, the way to check communications if the receiver and transmitter were in close proximity. Like now.

"Cycle channels."

Shepard's anger began to firm into something closer to resolve as the overseer's expression hardened, his eyes fixed on her.

"Cease transmission. Lieutenant, stand down."

Shepard recognized the tone, and forced herself to obey. Argyle terminated the transmission. The ensuing silence told everyone Shepard's radio had not received the transmission. Any soldier who got this far into the N-program knew to make emergency contact via the only other medium they had. A broken radio was no joke.

As a tech, Shepard knew better than to be caught without her omni-tool. For a tech it was an unspoken requirement to keep that piece of technology on one's person at all times.

"Sit." The overseer pointed to his chair, from which he usually presided over these training exercises. He suspected tower security was lying about in a serious state of pain, still guarding the stairs up to this level.

Shepard threw herself into the chair without question or protest, crossing her arms. By now the adrenaline was wearing off, rendering her in the throes of powerful annoyance. This whole scenario reminded her why she hated eggheads so much, if she could use the word 'hate'.

The overseer strode calmly over to the technician in charge of emergency communications. His face was calm, but inside he was seething quite as much as Shepard. It took more to train and maintain an N-operative than it did one of these technicians. "This radio worked at the beginning of the exercise, didn't it, Argyle?"

"Aye sir." Argyle nodded. "I've got records indicating…"

The overseer set the helmet in front of the tech. "Bring up the contact logs." They should have been up, but what the tech had not done, in the shock of finding the marine from the course hissing and spitting in the tower, was to minimize the camera display from the course observer's station. It looked as though he'd been watching it, letting it fill the screen with no attention paid to what he was supposed to be doing.

Beneath the display from the course cameras was a transmission log. Transmissions placed minutes apart, then running every three minutes, meaning Shepard had directed her omni-tool to fire off the prepared message even while she was trying to fight her way to the tower, displaying the same message.

_N6 Shepard. Radio failure. No longer receiving directives. Please advise. _

The overseer's annoyance flared as he looked back to Shepard. She sat stony faced, obviously annoyed, but obviously unwilling to pick a fight with the overseer, or to abuse the tech in the overseer's presence.

"Give me the designation of your workstation," the overseer said coldly, looking back down at the tech. In his annoyance, he seemed to tower over the lad.

"E-emergency transmissions, incoming. Sir," he appended quickly.

The overseer's eyes narrowed. "Don't 'sir' me, boy. You left one of my perspective sevens with no safety net. No fallback."

"S…"

"Don't you apologize to _me_, and I don't want you talking to my marine just yet." The overseer snarled softly. Despite the fact he had not yet raised his voice, it sounded as though he were shouting in the silent room. "How many bots did you wreck, Shepard?"

"A lot." Shepard managed to say it tonelessly. She had lost count. She had hoped at the time someone would notice she was outside parameters—but not enough to get her kicked out—and might wonder why she was suddenly on a rampage.

"Do you know how much those bots cost?" The tech shook his head as the overseer seemed to bear down on him. "Do you know what it's like to be _stuck _out of communications? How many times did she try and get your attention?"

The tech closed his eyes. "A lot."

"A lot. You don't have gunfire to worry about, boy, you'd better come up with a number for me."

It took a few minutes, but no one on the room though the overseer really cared what the number was. "Do you understand what the words 'emergency communications' mean?"

The tech swallowed, but again was not permitted to answer. There was no excuse that would suffice, nor any answer the overseer wanted to hear.

"The tech responsible for emergency transmissions incoming from the battlefield. As in, the marine is down. Or something's gone wrong," the overseer let the silence fall. "Get out of my tower."

The tech numbly stood up, catching sight of Shepard still in the overseer's chair. Her luminous eyes, neither blue nor green but vivid remained fixed upon him. It was the look of some big predator, too bored or lazy to come across the room…but definitely considering it.


	87. Break Away

"Shepard." The N-training overseer on the lunar base turned to face Shepard, still sitting rigidly in her chair. "What'd you do to my marines downstairs?" There were several, and he hoped she hadn't killed them. She looked in that sort of a bad mood when she'd come bursting into the control room.

"They're all right. No broken bones, I don't think." Shepard shrugged. The marines—not N-class—had not felt it prudent to let her go about her business and deal with the overseer, hence the damages. Being marines (and doing their duty), she refrained from inflicting severe damage. All in all, she felt she should be congratulated one her restraint.

The overseer nodded. "Head on back to the barracks."

Shepard stood up, but her words were far calmer than they had been at any point previously. Now was the chance to distinguish herself. It occurred to her while the overseer reamed the idiot tech: he had not told her whether this exercise would count against her, considering she had not actually completed the objective. Without the radio contact, she could not have done so. "With all due respect, sir. I have a training exercise to complete."

"Your radio's dead. And you've blasted half my course to crap." The overseer waved out the window.

"I've still got my omni-tool, sir. And in real life, direction would be routed that way, should radio communications fail."

The overseer frowned at Shepard. Yes, this was what made a good N, and if she pressed the issue, she'd come through the course with flying colors. It was rare that foul-ups like this occurred, and ended up disrupting the training but it did happen. If the operative was not hurt as a result, they usually obediently went back to the barracks to wait for a new training scenario.

Very few wanted to finish something so badly fouled, lest it get them failed. The jinx of an interrupted scenario was not taken lightly.

"I just kicked one of my techs out over this, Shepard, and now I've got injured marines to deal with. Thank you for bogging down my day."

"I understand, sir, but I don't believe in jinxed runs. Respectfully requesting permission to finish the mission, using my omni-tool as the communication main line." She'd done far more than carry on with enforced radio silence in real life. It was the stigma of being a hero, of having done something supposedly great: the expectations placed on you were higher. She had come into this training evolution, and every one since the Blitz, with people holding her to a very high standard.

All she could do was act the part of the overachiever. For someone in her position it was easier to fail than to pass respectably; perhaps this was why she _had_ succeeded as well as she had, very powerful motivation and an unwillingness to fail.

By now most of the techs watched with interest: this was the sort of thing one would expect from _the _Lieutenant Shepard! The room seemed to hold its collective breath as Shepard waited, her demeanor as calm now the problem was resolved.

The reality was somewhat different. Shepard's heart pounded in her chest, doubt nibbled at her mind: what if something else went wrong? What if she had gone too far? What if, what if, what if…

The overseer could see the apprehension, the same look some people wore when they tossed the dice, waiting to see whether their gamble would pay off or not. She was a smart one, Shepard. But she was unnerved, too, which would affect her performance.

The overseer picked up her helmet, frowning at it. She knew real life was going to throw curve balls; she'd fielded quite a few already. Simply by offering to continue on, to display the marine's mantra of _adapt, improvise, overcome_, she had pulled to the fore of this pack of candidates.

If she completed the exercise successfully, she would break away from the pack completely.

If she failed…well, then it was his call as to whether or not to let this evolution stand, when the original reason for failure was clearly on the side of the tower. Though arguably, if she failed after this, it was because she didn't know her own limits.

There was precedent. Lots of precedent.

Shepard tried not to shake from adrenaline and nerves as the overseer eyed her speculatively. It was as though she had tried to jump across a ravine, for the moment hanging suspended in midair, unsure of whether she would land on solid rock, or if she would plummet into the abyss below.

The overseer wasn't giving anything away. The man was harder to read than anyone Shepard had ever met, and she knew why. The tiny pin on his lapel proclaimed him an N7.

The overseer wordlessly pulled up Shepard's records. He had her playing from a handicap already, but this was not uncommon. Those who achieved inevitably ended up working from a handicap. Just because you could qualify as a specialist did not mean all specialists were of the same grade or quality.

"Why do you want to do this?"

"I don't want to give the board a reason to fail me." Shepard answered the question honestly.

"You think this'll get you a pass?"

"If I fail this evolution, it won't be because your radio crapped out, or because I quit when it got complicated. Sir." This was it, she'd collapsed her emergency exit. She'd committed herself. Wholly.

The overseer did not smile, but handed Shepard her helmet. "Get back in the containment area." With that, he walked over to the abandoned station recording input from her omni-tool and sat down.

Shepard did not smile until she was out of the room, and safely ensconced in her helmet.

Time to break away from the pack. If she knew these overseer types, she knew it would be a hard slog.

But she was more than up for the challenge.


	88. Breaking the Rules

Shepard kept one eye on her omni-tool and one on things in the containment area as soon as she was back within bounds. She honestly did not expect the overseer to give her a fair shot. In fact, she expected him to make a good (ultimately successful) effort to 'kill' her. Given his experience, and his now very hands-on participation—the game had shifted out of her favor.

When instructors felt challenged, they got mean. When they got hands-on, they got sadistic. There was method to the madness, but it did not make being instructed by these people any easier.

So she chose to change the dynamic to _her_ favor before things got started. Well, re-started.

She hacked the droid wrangler's station, pausing as she walked down the stairs. Previously this was an evolution focusing on combat, not technological tricks. Now the overseer was directly involved…time to break the rules. Because she could not believe he would stick to the original mission parameters.

Her heart rate picked up as she approached the mineshaft to which she was directed. It was almost like a real-life situation. She had to be careful. She had to be _good_. The silence pressing on her ears was worse than ever, since she knew the tower was plotting behind her back.

Call it ego, call it pride, call it arrogance…Shepard did not expect to fail. She did not expect to lose. She certainly expected to find herself in a lot of trouble very quickly. She'd issued a challenge, and the overseer—while amuse— would not let that go.

Or she thought he was amused. If he wasn't, he'd have opted for something other than humoring her.

The mineshaft sealed behind Shepard. Expected. They wouldn't want her running, now they had her like a rat in a trap.

The lights went out. For the time being, she forgot she had a healthy respect for the overseer, N7 that he was.

Right now, she hated the bastard.

_But_, she corrected herself, _you're the dummy for pushing the issue. You could've let it go as a mechanical failure and try again later. But _no_…_

Smirking at her own brand of thick-headedness, Shepard knelt, pulling a red-lens flashlight from her web gear. Sure enough, a new message was ready for her, giving her coordinates to proceed to.

Shepard did not start moving, but opened the display on her omni-tool mirroring the one at droid wrangling. The display was hard to read in the dark and the red light, but she got the gist. With a grim smile, she took a few more minutes before closing out and proceeding with the mission.

-J-

"What…no!" the tech tapped his screen worriedly.

"What is it?" the overseer sipped his coffee, all attention not focused on taking in feedback for his techs focused on the send-receive messages dialog open on his screen.

"She's doing something _weird_…"

"'Weird' how?"

"Like, her blip just disappeared…no…yes…" The tech bit his lip, struggling to reacquire the signal.

"She's dampening the signal. Tech qualification," someone else announced.

"Run a check for bugs in the system; get her back on the radar!" Never mind no one used radar anymore, the phrase had long outlived the technology.

"No bugs, sir. All systems green."

The overseer squinted at the screen. "What're you doing, Shepard? Are the drones closing in?"

"On her last known position…"

-J-

Shepard crouched in the darkness, the dampening field broadcasting from her omni-tool clouding her presence. It would dim the drones' perceptions as they chased the errant signal registering as 'her' until the tower figured out they were chasing a phantom.

It wouldn't take long for them to figure it out, and her uplink to the droid wrangler's station was weakening as she worked her way underground. It wouldn't last much longer, if she kept going deeper. She couldn't finish the mission unless she reached the lower levels of the mine. She was good, but she couldn't beat physics…or was this geology?

Oh well; droids were easier to confuse than humans. She could keep anything down here occupied, for a while at least.

They were herding her like a rat in a maze. However, this was training not real life. Even though the overseer would eventually 'kill' her, she intended to complete the new mission: blow up the mine.

Reaching the dummy bomb Shepard knelt nearby, but did not start the hack right away. A few moments of fumbling with her omni-tool, holding the flashlight in her teeth cost her precious time. She could hear the whirr of the drones. By now the tower had probably managed to 'find' her via the dampening signal she was using on the drones, which meant they knew where to send said drones.

It wouldn't matter if the drones could see her or not, all they had to do was open fire into this dead end shaft. Sweat slipped down Shepard's face as she started to disarm the bomb. The fact that a combat training evolution had become a crossover evolution did not escape her or deter her.

The original mission was rendered defunct by an idiot. In some ways, this was a better test for an N to undergo.

-J-

"We've got her cornered, sir."

The overseer smiled. Of course she was cornered. There was no other way for this to end, since she had to corner herself to get to the bomb. That was life. Of course, he had no intention of failing her for this evolution…but he did want to drive home the point that she was still a kid, and shouldn't pick fights with someone who had a lot more life experience.

"All right. Take her down."

The droid wrangler cued the command that would effectively let Shepard know she was 'dead'.

But the count timer did not stop, meaning something was still happening to tell the system the exercise was still live.

The last word the overseer saw from Shepard's omni-tool before the clock finally stopped answered all questions.

_Boom._


	89. Stripes

It was the proudest day of her life. A fierce sense of accomplishment burned in her chest as Lieutenant Shepard looked at herself in the mirror. Not a small mirror, suitable for touching up makeup she rarely wore: a full-size mirror on the N-specialists' training base on the moon.

After nine years she was done. Nine years of on-again, off-again training, drilling, grilling, testing, and trials. Now it was over. Nothing to do now but celebrate, apply, and possibly teach. The exhausting training evolutions were, once you reached the seventh level, less about seeing what you could learn and more about applying what you had learned.

Hence why there were often injuries if not fatalities. When you put techs or biotics into the mix, the stability of a combat-oriented test changed. VI could only do so much, particularly if the VI suddenly—to use her favorite phrase for technological failure—'crapped out'.

It was not her face in the mirror that had Shepard's attention. It was triangular pin on the lapel of her jacket. An N-operative was not expected to show off while in uniform—though their armor, with the bold red stripe and N7 designation over the heart both painted (in the red stripe's case _re_painted) on at the graduation ceremony invariably called attention to the fact.

Eggheads didn't appreciate the stupidity of putting a big red target on a specialist. The red stripe down the arm would scream 'shoot me now or run away'.

And most of the things shooting in her direction would happily keep firing.

But the pin was nice, subtle, graced with a miniscule black 'I'. 'I' for Infiltrator. It meant more to her than her Star of Terra ever had. That came about from being in the wrong place at the wrong time and staying alive. She _earned _the pin, through much hard work and no accidents yielding advancement.

_I am an Infiltrator. _She used the words over the years, to reassure non-techs she really did know what she was doing. They now took on a whole new meaning. She was an_ Infiltrator_, as highly qualified as one could _get_. She now had the stenciled-on designation to prove it.

The lack of practicality in painting a big white target near her heart did not escape her, but it was worth the risk.

People went after medics first, anyway.

Eggheads—especially the ones who managed to assign such pride in the stripes that people were willing to risk extra attention in combat—did not appreciate any of this. They sat in control towers and conducted the N7 training, coming up with weird scenarios. There was no way to study for these 'tests' you simply did what you could. Sometimes the answer was as simple as shoot everything. Sometimes as mediocre as hack the VI so it registered 'pass'. Sometimes it was hard: the wreckage of scrapped training bots and the faint cries of 'not fair' on the range master's dedicated channel proved there were easier ways.

And cheaper too, but when you wanted to play with the big kids…

An old saying about omelets and broken eggs wafted nonsensically through Shepard's pleasantly hazed state of mind. Well, the omelets in her life tended to come dehydrated in packets, to be rehydrated and put in a heating unit.

Nothing broken about those eggs, and there were goobers if you weren't careful.

The theory was, better to reconstitute your eggs than put them in a field ration-esque pouch. Something about weird flavors not belonging on a starship.

Shepard adjusted the pin, light catching the edges. The shape was not lost on her either. Delta. The scientific sign for change. What was what an N-operative _did_. They _changed_ the dynamic of a situation.

Hard to shoot when a weapon overheated, or exploded. Hard to make a stand when shield batteries fizzled, or omni-tools met interference. Hard to launch drones when they kept exploding halfway to where they needed to be.

And she could do all of this…

Shepard's grin faded like warmth from the air after the sun goes behind a cloud. She mercilessly dashed the dark clouds threatening her afternoon of triumph. She generated these dark clouds like eggheads generated doomsday scenarios. No one she remembered, when dark thoughts coalesced, would want her spending today moping or somberly reviewing old deaths.

O'Conner would have sighed irritably, smacked her upside the head for getting mopey, then dragged her out to look for something fun to do. Luna's nightlife was more varied than that at Arcturus, since there were civilian enclaves.

She had to get out of the boonies first, though.

The smile that crept across her features went unnoticed by Shepard herself as she continued regarding the tiny, winking pin. Such a tiny thing to represent so much work, struggle, and trouble.

Her parents would beam. Their little overachiever. The one who liked to hack the school's computers, a form of rebellion against what had seemed such a despotic power structure. The girl who liked to fix the tractor, who helped keep the farm equipment running with chewing gum, bobby pins, and good, solid kicks. They'd be proud to know she'd gone as far as training could take her.

That clinched it. Tonight, for the memory of those long gone, she would go _out_ rather than celebrate at home. She had no idea what she'd do, probably settle down with an Astro-Fizz and something tasty in a highly crowded place and watch other people having fun.

Still, the fact she was going out of her own volition rather than holing up would appease O'Conner. Shepard still felt O'Conner was keeping an eye on things from the great hereafter making sarcastic comments or throwing popcorn at the screen as she watched her geek friend stumble through a conspicuously fun-devoid life.

The old stab of missing her friend had come and gone quickly, and with less discomfort than usual.

Or maybe it was the euphoria over finally earning her stripes.


	90. Happiness

Staff Lieutenant Shepard sat with the junior officers of the _SSV El Alamein_, in her dress blues. The high collar made her feel as though she had a noose around her neck—as it always had. But an officer's blues must look more stiffly formal than those of an enlisted troop, and—to quote a tale she could not quite remember—'pride must suffer pain'.

Today she minded it less, her attention on the raised platform at the end of the auditorium, where several ranks of other soldiers sat impassive and in some cases impressive. Today outweighed any and all physical discomfiture, as she watched the thin, proud face of Captain Robbins.

Shepard's heart swelled with pride. Twenty years—Robbins had entered the Lifers' Club. Twenty years was a long time. Which meant Robbins was nine years in when she rescued the sixteen-year-old Shepard. It felt strange, an eternity ago, another life.

Shepard shook herself. This was no time to get mopey. Robbins had no plans to retire anytime soon. Nothing had changed.

This all boiled down to a party, to cake on the ship. She saw to the cake before the crew departed for the ceremony. The Alliance uniforms who maintained security—and had clearance to be aboard—were taking care of the delivery of said cake. The thought made her want to smile smugly. Anyone who could say no to this cake was either crazy, or diabetic. She felt sorry for the latter.

When one acted as den mother for a mixed bag of navy and marines, one deserved spectacular cake when opportunity time came around.

-J-

Captain Robbins knew her crew—or a good majority of it—was up to something. Lt. Shepard never smirked like that for no reason. It was not her usual lopsided smirk, but a genuine _I know something you don't know_ smirk, which she wore all through the ceremony.

She would have to check her bed for snakes, toads, or other unpleasantness, see that none of her passwords mysteriously _changed_—or the desktop on her personal terminal had not changed to something less appropriate than the Alliance blue background.

She suspected she knew who put Mr. July from _Guys and Guns _on the desktop. An odd birthday present, but amusing nonetheless.

But it was good to see Shepard smirk, just as it was good to see the kid—Robbins very rarely used that moniker anymore—getting back to some semblance of normal. Still by the book, but less rigidly so than in the early days. And with a far better developed sense of humor.

Considering what that girl went through, any sense of humor was amazing in and of itself.

The herd of her crew proceeded her in leaving. They also left quietly, almost too quietly, with furtive glances back at her. Robbins prayed—for their sake—whatever they were up to was not too uncontrolled. Regional groups of the Earth-based Alliance Divisions were sometimes known as party-loving divisions, but her crew never displayed too enthusiastic tendencies…

…but Shepard's knowing smirk…

Robbins now knew _exactly_ what Shepard meant, when the Lieutenant invoked 'four-eyed uglies, the back of my neck'. Suddenly, taking the night out seemed like a very, very good idea. Too bad it wasn't feasible.

-J-

Shepard smirked at the cake. She was not the only one. The black frosting and white lettering gave the desired effect.

"She's going to skin you alive, El-Tee, and hang what's left on her office door as a warning to jokers," Forbes grinned, looking at the cake. He would not have expected it of Shepard.

"Better me than you, Forbes," Shepard grinned. Everyone glanced up reflexively as the ship declared Capt. Robbins aboard, and the XO relieved.

Within minutes Robbins entered the mess, looking side to side suspiciously. Her crew moved as one to either side of the main table, stifling grins. "All right, I'll bite." Robbins strode up, looking at the black cake. She was not entirely successful in stifling a smile of her own.

The black frosted cake was decorated to resemble a coiled bullwhip, with _Capt. L. Robbins: 20 Years of Reigning Evil Taskmaster _in utilitarian white lettering.

Robbins closed her eyes, bowing her head. "Shepard—was this you?" She did not really need to ask but watching some of the lower level enlisted crewmen squirm was amusing.

"Yes ma'am," Shepard answered blithely, as if admitting to having actually _found_ the elbow grease, or bulkhead remover.

"Mm hmm. I thought so."

Shepard grinned at Robbins, knowing the older woman well enough to know when she was trying to conceal her humor.

"Lieutenant, why don't you go find me some elbow grease?" Robbins shook her head.

Shepard reached down to the floor, and produced a can, the size of a soda can, which she set on the table. Embellished on the aluminum were the words _Best_ _Elbow Grease_—which of the many objects of a snipe hunt, was Robbins' favorite.

Robbins picked up the can, unusually heavy for its size. "Okay, you win. Where's the knife?"

Shepard produced this as well—though without any jokes or humorous additions. The knife was just a knife, a _real_ knife, not some blunt imitation.

"Where did you get this thing, anyway?" Robbins asked Shepard, once the party was underway.

Shepard licked her frosting-blackened lips. "I've got contacts." Shepard reminded herself not to smudge up the last of the frosting with her finger, unless she wanted the dye to stick. She had not anticipated the humorous results of the black frosting—namely too many people walking around with darkened lips. Like a pack of zombies.

"Right." Robbins did not stifle her grin as she set her disposable plate and plastic spork on the table.

Shepard could not deny the fact that it was a good day. In fact, she was happier than she had felt in quite a while. "I'm not _that_ bad, am I?" Shepard asked innocently.

"Worse." But Robbins meant it no more than Shepard believed it.

*The quote is from Hans Christian Anderson's "The Little Mermaid".


	91. Pain

Lieutenant Shepard's scream was muffled by her helmet. The pain tearing through her abdomen, beneath her rib cage was paralyzing. It was pain unlike anything Shepard had ever experienced. She hit the ground, her skeleton jarring within its muscle packing and skin wrapping, within the encasing armor which had evidently not done its job.

Overhead bullets continued to zip this way and that.

The hazy red atmosphere of the backwater world glowered down at Shepard as she panted, the pain rendering her almost incoherent. Her fingers found the shape of the hole, her shields shorting, sending purple-blue ripples of distortion away from the breach.

Her under armor clothes wicked away moisture, but were never meant to stop bleeding. The pain made it nearly impossible to move, let alone think. The injury was not fatal—she would not be in so much pain if it was—but with grit and contaminants getting into the wound from the disty outside world, this might not mean much.

And it certainly meant nothing to the team.

She tried to move, feeling more blood gush from the wound, taking her breath away. She could not stifle the squeak of pain, the only sound she could manage, as her breath caught in her throat. Not even breaking a collarbone, having it shatter from a blow delivered by failing climbing gear hurt so much…

"_Lieutenant? Are you okay? Answer me!" _

Shepard barely managed to grunt, the pain robbing her of words. "Nnng."

-J-

"Finch! Get your ass over there!" Forbes shouted, unable to see Shepard behind her rock. She wasn't answering coherently. He heard her grunt in pain, could hear her labored breathing over the radio, but somehow it made things worse, rather than better.

Shepard would _expect _him to step up, and take the lead if anything happened to her. The mentoring officer encouraged her team leads to plan the mission under her critical eye. In fact he had 'led' several missions with Shepard standing by, like a teenager learning to drive. He had the wheel, he had the brakes, but he did not have the decision as to where to go and how to get there. He could suggest, but not make unilateral decisions.

Until now. If this was what it took to finally get a shot at leading without Shepard breathing down his neck…he was not sure he wanted it. She'd never let him do anything that would get the others killed. Now, he had to know what was safe and what wasn't, without the benefit of experience keeping the playing field level.

If any of the others died…it would be _his_ fault…his and his alone.

-J-

Finch, scuttling as best she could, worked her way through the field of rocks the marines had taken refuge in. The outside of this prefab bunker relied on manpower to keep invaders out. It looked to Finch as though every bandit in the cluster had showed up to repel the ground crew.

Finally she made it. Shepard had rolled onto her side, pressing herself against the rock for cover, shotgun gripped in one hand. Blood spattered the disturbed sandy ground, but not the pooling blood which would have meant a clean wound in and out. Finch did not know which was worse. The doctor could get the bullet out…but only if she got Shepard back to the ship.

"It's ok, El-Tee! I'm gonna…gonna patch you back together!" Finch's face stood out pale behind the tinted visor. "It'll be okay…"

Shepard let herself fall onto her back, panting from the effort of trying to sit up. "S'okay, Finch…" Shepard managed to grit, sweat standing out on her face as Finch gaped at the single ugly bullet hole, puncturing shield, armor, and Shepard. "'It's not gonna kill me…"

Finch opened the pouch on her belt, pulling out medigel. All she had to do was patch the wound, patch the armor, and give the lieutenant something for pain…but Finch's hands shook, as her gloves began to show blood from trying to clear the wound.

Shepard groaned as Finch's attempts to administer first aid danced around actually doing any good. Gripping the girl's shoulder hard enough that Finch could feel the pressure through her armor, Shepard forced her mouth to work. "Just plug it. You can't make it hurt anymore than it does. " Ah, endorphins—but not enough to really block the pain.

"But contam…y-yes ma'am!" Finch aborted her excuse when Shepard gave her a look which would have withered new grass.

The cold bonding agent stopped the bleeding. The psychological relief of knowing one's lifeblood no longer fed the ungrateful sand helped clear Shepard's head, as Finch squeezed omni-gel into the hole in Shepard's armor.

"This'll numb it up."

Thank goodness the world's atmosphere was breathable, if dust-filled and otherwise hostile. Shepard popped her visor up, her helmet hissing as the seal broke. Popping the two proffered pills she swallowed them dry, trying not to gag.

"All right," moving with great difficulty, she pushed her visor down. Pain still screamed through her side, but it would lessen. Peering over the rock, Shepard leveled her shotgun.

-J-

Forbes heard the familiar sound of a shotgun. Shepard was the only one on the team who used one. He breathed a sigh of relief, knowing Finch had gotten to where Shepard was, and got the lieutenant back on her feet.

"_How're we doing, Forbes_?" Shepard's hoarse voice inquired over the radio.

Forbes stifled the impulse to ask if she was all right. It would just annoy her, since bullets were flying. "Just waiting for you to get off break, ma'am."

"_Good man. You feel all right to lead the rest of this mission_?" But she'd be right there, providing instructions in his ear, the whole time. She couldn't do much, injured as she was. Not if she wanted to maintain the safety of her team.

"We better get on with it: I wanted to watch a couple vids when we got back to the ship."


	92. Puzzle

Lieutenant Shepard leaned heavily on Finch's shoulders. The guards crawling around the exterior of the mercenary base they were storming all lay dead or dying.

Seeing their CO go down had certainly had not won the mercs any friends among the young marines.

It was encouraging was the way Forbes had stepped up, led the way, and continued to lead, while Shepard continued pulling the group's collective reins. She was less use in a fight than before, but fortunately an N7 knew when to shoot, and when to make shooting easier for someone else.

The 'when to make shooting easier' was part of the reason she joined the Infiltrator training in the first place.

Forbes and Partridge already stood by the door, snarling softly to each other. "What's the matter?" Shepard demanded, limping the last few yards to join them, one hand pressed over the omnigel-patched hole in her armor.

From what she understood around the creatively strung-together expletives, the door was locked. Locked, and not unlocking anytime soon.

"Well, that's where I come in." Shepard leaned on the wall near the door's external locking mechanism, currently red. Standing on her own two feet for too long was neither advisable, nor in the cards. She knew Dr. Cardwell would have to dig the bullet out later. Right now, it was lean on objects in the environment, or on Finch.

At least the painkillers kept the injury from incapacitating her.

"You okay, Lieutenant?" Partridge frowned, as Shepard activated her omni-tool and began to poke at it, her eyes somewhat unfocussed.

"Just a little achy." She was considerably more than a little achy, but Partridge only needed to know she was not going to keel over and die right here. Shepard would have worried more about this lock if it were a traditional deadbolt, or something manual.

Anything else electronic was hackable. 'Anything else' was what Shepard was trained to work with.

Shepard looked a mess as she began the hack, though it was her team who noticed it more than she. Everything she touched wound up with bloody fingerprints on it, and the armor around the purple omnigel patch glistened with fresh blood, the edges of which were beginning to dry.

At least she couldn't feel the bullet.

The omni-tool beeper at her. _Hack failed_.

Shepard's brow ceased. Well, that was okay. Who wanted to solve a puzzle on the first try, anyway? It wouldn't be a _puzzle_, otherwise. Someone who didn't appreciate the skills needed, the training, the appeal of something that didn't happen on the first shot might argue it was some flaw in her skills, but a real tech knew the difference between a challenge and flawed training.

The omni-tool beeped again, as though contradicting her. Shepard scowled at _it_ this time, instead of the lock. That was quite enough with the beeping, thank you.

Third time was always a charm, anyway.

It thumbed its metaphorical nose at her with the next beep. A beep indicating she was so far off the mark on getting the damn door open it was funny.

_The door was laughing at her_. It was a _locked door_! But it was _laughing_! At _her_!

_No_.

It was the drugs. It had to be the drugs. It was a _door lock_, to a prefab bunker. They weren't known for great security: hence why the pirates, and mercs and ugly-ass aliens were crawling all over the pla…

_Beeeeeep-oop_. The door was a smartass. And she had no humor to spare for it. This was quite enough of the nonsense…

"Quit making me look bad," she muttered, making faces no one else could see at the door. It wasn't just making her look bad. It was _mocking_ her. Publicly.

_Beeeeeep-oop_.

Forget puzzles, _what the hell_? This…wasn't…working…

She _knew_ there was nothing wrong with the battery. She used her omni-tool often enough that the battery life was almost as important as her shields once she'd armored up.

_Beeeeeep-oop_.

"All right you sneaky little son of a bitch…" All joking aside…

Finch, standing closest to Shepard, could hear the lieutenant swearing and threatening the lock quite clearly. It had to be the drugs. Shepard was usually very well-spoken and far less profanity-laced when she addressed a problem. Still, the young woman edged away, in case Shepard resorted to more barbaric means of opening the door.

Like shooting the lock, which wouldn't open the door, but would probably relieve a lot of frustration. And Sheppard was undoubtedly frustrated—and hurting. A bad combination.

Shepard took a deep breath, leaning towards the lock so _no one_ would hear what she said next. She shouldn't swear in front of the kids, whether they could hear her or not. She certainly didn't want them to hear _this _scorcher…

The lock 'booped'. The status light turned green. Shepard straightened, her bad mood vanishing. "Just gotta know how to talk to it. I love a puzzle." Scanning the room immediately ahead of them yielded no life-signs, so she opened the door.

Finch, who heard most of what Shepard actually said to the lock, did not look as amused as Partridge and Forbes. How to _talk_ to it? More like how to _threaten_ it…

…but whatever got the job done, right?

As Forbes led the way in, Shepard checked the hack that had finally worked. From here it looked so simple, not very clever at all. Then again, most mercs were pretty stupid. The degree of stupidity was usually determined by whether or not marines were knocking on their bunker's door.

It was the drugs. It had to be. She knew she was fallible…but it was a locked door. Not even a very expensive one. She loved puzzles. But she hated trying to solve them while under the influence of drugs and pain.

Then again, any specialist would explain it: puzzles were great. And swearing at the puzzle generally meant the specialist was about halfway done with it. It was just part of the process.


	93. Do Not Disturb

_Do not disturb_.

It was not a sign usually found hanging on any door of any room in which Shepard stayed. But it hung there _now_, on the door to her room in the base's VOQ—little more than an Alliance-owned hotel. Anyone who knew her longstanding habit—or had never stopped to think about it until it suddenly altered—would have pondered as to what could possibly be so important that she would go out of her way to remind people she was not a social butterfly.

_Do not disturb_.

With a larger crew than the one serving on the _SSV_ _El Alamein_, there would have been a great deal of gossip. Those who did not know her well might hazard a guess, but people who knew her, knew her well enough to know that if she was really hiding something, she would have stuck to her usual conventions and not left the sign on the door. It drew too much attention.

As to what she might hide, or might be doing that involved such a blasé statement of _leave me alone_, no one could guess. So no one asked. And no one bothered to disobey the sign, and tap on her door to ask her if she was all right.

Which suited Shepard well enough.

_Do not disturb_. Three little words which described her well, when she chose to use them. Shepard did not think of herself as an insular person—though by some definitions she could fall into no other category. But tonight was a good enough for…

…_do not disturb._

Soft lights of imitation candles gave the dim quarters enough light for her to see by, the darkness gentle as the sound of bats fluttering in the dark. As pleasant as silk on bare skin. No vids ran in the background to provide noise to keep eardrum-compressing silence at bay. The extranet lit up no screens in the room with news, or entertainment. But soft music, lazy music, subtle music laced through the darkness along with the smell of something vaguely floral. A hint in the air of something unusual. Something warranting the three words…

…_do not disturb_.

Shepard smiled lazily, indulgently even as, one by one, every standard issue navy blue article was gently peeled free of her, duly unbuckled, unsnapped, or unbuttoned before being cast idly aside in a long trail wandering from bathroom to bed.

She intended to enjoy herself, and take comfort in the little sign hanging from the door of the visiting officer's quarters on a groundside base, the name of which Shepard was, for the time being, perfectly content to forget.

Or maybe it was more accurate to say 'pleasantly distracted from remembering'. Who cared about trivial details?

_Do not disturb_.

A sweet, cold, slice of fresh fruit—not an apple, orange, or banana, but a luxury usually afforded by time groundside—slipped past her lips like a kiss, eliciting a juice-laced giggle as she closed and leaned against the bathroom door, blocking all escape, except that of the steam rising from the bathtub.

"There's a time and a place for everything, than this is _it_," she checked her hair, after taking in the room once more. A needless gesture, but one caught by the steamy mirror, reflecting it hazy and almost coquettish. Hot water sloshed as she slid into it. "Ugh…it's been one of those tours…" the husky announcement prompted her to shift, careful not to move around too much, lest she slosh water all over the room.

But she might just end up doing that anyway, for all her pains to the contrary.

_Do not disturb. _

They'd better not—and she did not really care who 'they' was. This was a night to remember. A special night. Her night, if she decided to feel possessive. And she decided she _did_. Tonight was extravagance. Tonight was a feast for all senses. Tonight was a night for…

…_do not disturb._

And who knew what would happen later, when mood began to really mellow? She doubted, as the hot water lapped around her, it would be the same sort of guilty pleasure as a pint of ice cream in a lonely kitchen. But who was complaining?

The gentle sound of music insinuated itself into the barely-lit darkness, adding depth to the warm, perfumed air—but she could not hear any incessant ticking clocks. Not even her watch, abandoned somewhere on the floor in the other room.

The night was young, and she intended it should be timeless until she felt like rejoining the rest of the galaxy, with life meted out by shifts, seconds, days and decades. As far as she knew, or cared, everyone and everything in this room was beyond Time's hand. Out of it. Away from it.

Safe from all the ravages of her chosen career. She accepted the risks and dangers, enjoyed some, but for now she was happy to take solace behind three words in which she rarely had much use for.

_Do not disturb. _

"_Shepard? Shepard, I know you're in there. Answer me." _Captain Robbins' curt voice—and using the unmistakable tone of command—cut across the quiet, deeply personal ambiance, causing Shepard to jerk. If she had not been perfectly alone in the tub, someone would have gotten ribs full of sharp elbow. Hot water and perfumed bath bubbles sloshed out of the tub as she scrambled for her comm-link, sitting by the sink. The bubbly mess spread across the floor, inching determinedly away from her bathmat towards those of her clothes shut in the room with her. 

_Do not disturb_. That was how the door read, guarding Shepard's personal haven of uninterrupted 'me time' with bubble bath, Astro-Fizz and fresh-sliced fruit.

But Robbins obviously could not see the sign: _do not disturb. _

She never should have tempted fate, using the stupid sign. She had too little use for the words, and now remembered _why. _No one else had any use for them either.


	94. Playing the Melody

The newly-promoted Commander Shepard sat in her apartment on Arcturus Station, gingerly disentangling the soft plastic implement which held her hair in its regulation bun. She would never have managed such a hairstyle without this little cheat. It felt good to let her hair down—quite literally.

The remote for the music system still lay on her bed, meaning she had to get to her feet, and plod over to retrieve it.

Oh, to be a biotic.

The sounds of classical piano came drifting serenely over the speaker system. Shepard returned to her chair, leaning her elbows on the table as Pachelbel filled the room with auditory perfume.

Echoes of the past mingled with the elation over her promotion. How proud her parents would have been—even if, at the time, she never considered military life. How proud O'Conner would have been—and how indecorous. There was no party accompanying this promotion, but Shepard knew very well O'Conner would have dragged her out in search of that ever elusive thing called 'fun'.

_You're such a stick in the mud—lighten up. _

Shepard smiled, leaning her elbows on the table before plucking her rank insignia off, setting it so it canted back, the overhead lights glittering on it. Contrary to popular belief, she did not consider herself overly ambitious, if being the best in her field and a pursuit of excellence could be called true ambition.

At this rate, though, she ought to find a real ambition.

She did _not_ want Admiral Hackett's job. Nor Robbins'. She simply did not possess the skills to be a concert pianist, or a pianist of any sort—her left hand was far too stupid.

The time O'Conner dragged her forcibly to look at keyboards—which neither of them could afford or, for that matter, keep in their apartments due to space constraints—played like old film across her mind's eye. O'Conner dragging her around—more or less literally, people hustling this way and that.

-J-

_The quiet of the store, with its expensive grand pianos and cheaper keyboards with too many instrumental settings—and even more bells and whistles—pressed upon her ears. "Come on, you don't know any more about music than I do," Shepard complained. Her feet ached, her head spun, and O'Conner was just getting started. _

"_Come on, Shepard, you're such a stick in the mud—lighten up." O'Conner looked around before heading towards the so-called 'real pianos'. "Besides, you may not think so, but I had music lessons when I was a kid. Piano. I wasn't half bad either." She sat down upon the bench of a particularly fine-looking black piano. _

_Shepard stood uncomfortably behind O'Conner. Not wanting to imply—or outright say—she she not believe this assertion of musical ability, she simply tried not to fidget. The whole store gave off the aura of a super strict library, or a hospital where too many people lay dying._

_O'Conner caught the look. "Church-run orphanage? You learn to play if they catch you banging on the keys and making a lot of noise." _

"_May I assist you?" An attendant glided over, looking posh and fashionable—a stark contrast between the marines in their blues, covers tucked into their belts. Everything about her, except the bright red lipstick, matched the overall store, unyielding, unvaried black and white. _

"_No, thanks, just looking," O'Conner answered blithely, suspecting the attendant merely heard 'banging on the keys'. Shepard nodded in agreement as O'Conner struck a chord which did not sound off key. "Haha…" Without looking back she nodded to the bench. "Sit down, Shepard—you're making me nervous." _

"_Just trying to help." But with this pithy comeback Shepard complied, watching O'Conner's fingers. Bitten nails and a band of electrical tape did not disguise how elegant she made the motions look. Or probably, Shepard simply never considered O'Conner's fingers. Why should she? Usually fingers were best employed on the trigger of an assault rifle—or in Shepard's case, a shotgun. _

"_Here, you play the right…like this." So inspired, O'Conner picked out a melody one-handed, very slowly._

"_I can't play that," Shepard curled her lip doubtfully. She could not, she had _no_ musical inclination. Although, she frowned, she would rather have liked to. But enough was enough. If she encouraged O'Conner any further she would turn into a yes-woman. "You have fun, I'll watch." If O'Conner was given no choice but to learn to play, she had been given no choice but to remain musically incompetent. She could listen to music, but that was about it. _

"_Come on, it's not hard. Like his." She struck one key, then looked at Shepard._

_With a sigh, Shepard picked out the same key further up the keyboard, following O'Conner's lead slowly. "And a little faster," O'Conner prompted, until finally she let Shepard pick out the melody, and supplied the left hand. "See? It's easy." _

"_Until we get to the end of the bit I know." Shepard could not shake off the impression the attendant did not want window shoppers touching her beautiful, glossy-finished pianos. Glancing back, out of the corner of her eye, she caught the woman's disapproving look._

_Time to get fingerprints all over this glossy keyboard. _

"_Come on, it's culture—marines need all the culture we can get. Again." A poor excuse, but O'Conner said it so robustly not even Shepard was going to argue. All irritation with snooty sales clerks, and her general opting to collaborate with a teammate aside, made it a memorable experience to actually _make_ music—even if she did so clumsily. _

_Besides, this way she did not have to worry about reading music, or worrying about what all the little notes and squiggles meant. _

_This was simple. It was just playing the melody. _

_But not even for O'Conner would she _sing_. She drew the line at singing. _

-J-

Without conscious thought, the fingers on Shepard's right hand began to tap out the melody on the table, in accompaniment to the music pouring from her stereo.


	95. Mother Nature

The high winds whipped across the three marines as they struggled to move forward, finally forced to walk from their vehicle to the target area. Overhead black clouds vanished between the dark, rocky ground and the dark night above. Neither moon nor star pierced the shroud, to reveal the torment of the surface.

Only the sensors on the orbiting _SSV El Alamein_ saw past the storms to three small blips of light zipping along the surface, before stopping, and continuing in a larger formation, at much slower speeds. Below the ship in orbit, the blue star around which the moonless planetoid orbited flickered brilliantly.

The dark side of the planet looked darker from the ground. It did the marines little good, to know what color the sun was. No one on the surface team cared. They considered their problems bigger than the attraction playing galactic tourist. "Forbes! Keep your eyes on the screen, let us know when we're right on top of it!" Shepard shouted into her helmet radio—shouted so she could hear herself—as she balanced carefully, leaning into the wind so as not to lose her balance. Too much more, and the gale would start causing armored marines to whip about like glitter in the ever-enduring school project for tornadoes: soap, glitter and water in a jar.

"Aye-aye ma'am!" Forbes shouted back, planting his feet as he hunched into the rain. The low-light visual enhancement allowing him to see more than dark shapes—and his teammate's locator beacons—in darker night. "Little more to port, Finch!"

Finch nodded, unseen, throwing her weight into the wind, wishing for Forbes' or even Shepard's more substantial build. The driving wind was bad enough, but not the worst they could expect to find on a hostile, young world. Young, but not still in the throes of creation.

Rain began to spatter in heavy drops, though on a world like this, the likelihood of the 'normal' Earth-variety H2O rain was low. Probably sulfurous, or nitrogen rich, Forbes decided as he continued towards the lighted icon on his tracking screen.

"Is it safe?" Finch demanded, a little shrilly.

Shepard looped back, with a shouted command to Forbes to take point. "Take point, Forbes—you've got the locator!" He waved his acknowledgement, a gesture only the low-light filters across Shepard's helmet faceplate caught. Without those same filters, she would have broken her ankle slipping into a shallow, darkness-obscured crater. Overhead another meteor punched through the clouds like an angry flaming fist. They could not see the impact, but Shepard had no doubt that if the meteor was anywhere close the _SSV El Alamein_ would not be.

"The sooner we're out of here the better!" Shepard could not give full approval to this plan while others could hear her, but it certainly sounded sensible. Given her way, she'd let the Alliance pick another day to drop them down here to play survey team. She grabbed Finch by the arm and gave her a shake. "Snap out of it Finch—if it could get through your hardsuit I wouldn't have had them drop us! Come on, up you go!"  
"We're getting close!" Forbes stepped onto the lip of the crater, up which they labored to climb.

The rock left scores on Shepard's kneepads and gloves as she followed Finch up. As always, particulars about the planet's general composition—past whether or not it was safe to take off the suit helmets—had drained out of her head to seep between the hard cushions in the Mako. Most people lost spare change in their cars. Marines lost spare details. Who cared about crust composition, unless it meant acidic geysers? Shepard looked into the deep pit, at which Forbes was pointing, as he struggled not to let the crosswind send him toppling one way or the…

Forbes yelped, lost his balance as the wind momentarily slackened before redoubling its effort.

"Forbes!" Finch shouted.

Forbes toppled forward, rolling—as he was _taught_ to roll, Shepard approved—until he vanished out of range of the lowlight filters. "Come on! Nothing living here!" Not even threshers—though Shepard harbored a great deal of wariness about the accuracy of 'no thresher maws present' assurances.

_That_ was what was said about Akuze.

Still, in a place like _this, _she thought, carefully half-climbing, half-sliding down the inside of the crater, even threshers might find it inhospitable. This rock was pretty rough and pretty dense. "Forbes!" Shepard's voice barked across the radios.

"'M okay! Just a tumble!" Forbes answered. "Bit of a fall too…"

Shepard stopped short, finally catching sight of Forbes. His tumble took him to the very bottom of the deep but small crater—too small into which to take the Mako, hence the necessity of walking—and into a secondary crater, which was a bit of a fall from the first crater's bottom.

"You're one lucky marine." Shepard reached down, balancing on the edge of the crater.

"Yeah—here's the vein of ore they wanted," Forbes nodded, examining his handheld locator instead of paying attention to Shepard's helping hand. "Probably came down on the meteorite that made _this_," he unshouldered the marker, kneeling to set it.

Once the beacon was set, the trio made their way—with more difficulty—up the inside of the crater. Upon gaining the summit they found the scenery changed. The blue sun rising over the horizon flooded the world with bright patches and thicker shadows. The sunlight illuminated the rain, whipped about in the high winds ravaging the planet.

"Looks like Mother Nature's having a bad hair day!" Finch called, heartened by the light.

Shepard picked out the Mako, crouching at the feet of its long shadow. "It does! Let's get out of here before she decided to up and throw something at the Mako!" Goodness knew she did not want to set up an emergency bivouac _here_. Hopefully it would long, travelling against the storm, to find a place where the _El Alamein_ could extract them.


	96. Triangle

Commander Shepard looked around the room as she entered. Something smacked of strangeness about this entire affair, starting a week ago with the invitation. It _looked_ like an invitation, it _read_ like an invitation: 'come join us, we have cake!'

But underneath the elegant scripts on the heavy _paper_, all she could hear were orders.

_Present yourself at such and such a time, in such and such a place. That is all. _

Another thing she noticed as soon as she walked in:, was how the brass throwing this party weren't there. That clinched it for Shepard, her eyes sliding back and forth, looking for the familiar faces of Admiral Hackett, or anyone else in charge.

Nothing. Just lots of servicemen—all officers—in their dress uniforms, milling around. Many of expressions bore mild suspicion, or thoughtfulness. Clearly many had noticed something off. Watching the decorations on the shoulders of several of the guests soon revealed another object of note: a lot of level five proficiencies were walking around, about half the assembly. The other half ranked higher than five.

A lot of specialists, in other words, and a lot of Ns.

"Commander Shepard?"

Shepard turned to find herself looking at the last person she expected to see in the flesh, let alone at a fancy to-do like this. Eva Rogers, the so-called Butcher of Torfan. They had never met, but Shepard remembered the face from the press coverage. Rogers smiled, but it was a cold, calculating smile, that oddly suited her gray-eyes and sharp features.

"_Lef_tenant Rogers."

"Good evening, Lieutenant." Shepard shook hands, disconcerted.

"I was wondering if you'd be asked to attend this function."

Shepard could not think of how to answer this.

Rogers simply chuckled. "It pays to keep an ear to the ground, I find. An ear to the ground and a finger on pulses."

Shepard did not like Rogers. She knew the other woman's reputation. They probably had a bit in common, beginning with a dislike of things living in the Terminus Systems, but something about the wry smile playing across Rogers' scarred features made Shepard want to say something nasty about pulses and the woman who slaughtered disarmed prisoners.

"Odd, don't you think?"

"Which?" Shepard had not meant to let her thoughts drift.

"You see all these men and women?" Rogers gestured with her glass. "Everyone here is ranked fifth-proficiency or higher in their field of expertise. More than half, including you, myself, and that gentleman over there, are N-class operatives." Rogers motioned to a man standing off by himself, holding up the wall and looking quite forbidding. An aura of 'don't talk to me' hung around him like perpetual gloom. "The very highest qualifications possible. And everyone here is _known_ for something. The Blitz..." she motioned to Shepard.

"Torfan." Shepard responded, meeting Rogers' steely eyes.

"I didn't think you'd disapprove, Commander," Robert's expression remained pleasant, but there was steeliness behind it. Apparently Rogers did not like her actions frowned upon. "You and your history with the batarians."

"My history with the batarians doesn't come into this." Shepard started for the drinks table.

"Doesn't it?" Rogers asked, arching her dark eyebrows as she walked alongside at Shepard's elbow. "I would have thought you were the last person to complain about a few less batarians ranging the Traverse."

Shepard reigned in her irritation, wondering if Rogers was doing it on purpose. "As I said, anything between the batarians and myself is _history_. It stays where it belongs."

"History makes and shapes us, Commander. I actually felt that, if you were on Torfan, the losses to the Alliance would have been greatly reduced. Things could have concluded much more quickly."

Shepard knew better. If she'd ended up on Torfan, it would have been because she had gotten herself kicked off the _El Alamein _by refusing to give up her grudge. _Yes,_ Shepard snarled mentally, wondering how she could shake this woman off,_ and one of us would have walked away with a _bullet_ in her _back. She would never share Rogers' views on what constituted acceptable losses.

Shepard turned sharply. "So says the Butcher of Torfan."

Roger's expression hardened. "I will not be judged by a woman whose claim to fame was being in the wrong place, at the wrong time."

Shepard's mouth curved into a cold smile, her eyes glittering. "I'm not judging you as a woman who was in the wrong place at the wrong time. I'm judging you as someone who used to hate batarians. I could have been _you_. Thank goodness someone taught me better. Excuse me, I see someone I know." Shepard left Rogers glowering, one hand clenched on the stem of her champagne glass.

Shepard made her way over to the wall where the soldier she'd noted earlier stood brooding—a Commander, and there was something vaguely familiar about his face…though she couldn't place it. She said nothing to him, nor he to her for some time.

"Disagreement with Rogers?" his voice was low, hoarse as if he was not used to using it.

"You too?"

He nodded. "So, which one are you?"

"I was on Elysium. The Blitz. You?" The crowd continued milling about. Something in this party made her feel as though her life was up for review.

"I was on Akuze."

She thought she recognized him.

Everyone knew about Akuze's sole survivor. Somehow 'I'm sorry' did not seem to cover it. An _entire_ unit of marines killed except for the last man. Shepard caught sight of ugly scarring creeping its way up the Commander's neck. "And the Butcher of Torfan. Hell of a party…"

She shook her head, but the commander looked bemused. "Sounds almost like a coincidence."

"Yes, it does." That spot on the back of Shepard's neck began to itch, as though an unseen batarian had her in his sights.

"John Sheffler." He held out a hand, to shake hers.

"Jalissa Shepard."

They fell silent, watching Rogers who stood near an opposing wall, watching them back.


	97. Traps

Commander Shepard and Commander Sheffler still stood, holding up a wall, when the brass finally arrived during the last half hour of this so-called party. Neither had any real desire to mingle, Sheffler by practice, Shepard because of a soured, suspicious mood.

Admiral Hackett led the way, looking older than Shepard remembered, though still giving the impression of someone she could respect and trust to give sound orders, before he ever opened his mouth. Hackett made it easier to can personal feelings and toe the Alliance's party line. All soldiers had to do that, sometime, at one point or another.

He looked more grizzled now, thinner, and for a moment during which the room gave him its undivided attention, she though she saw his gaze pause upon Sheffler, then herself.

The party resumed a moment later, as the rest of the train of officers followed in, among them Captain Anderson.

"That's a lot of brass." Sheffler's hoarse voice did not startle Shepard, though she had not expected him to speak. He was content remain stoically silent; in her current mood, this was a blessing. Between chatting with Rogers, and the general air of wrongness, or—she didn't like to use the word—duplicity, Shepard was in even less of a party mood than she might usually scrape together.

"Yeah, it is." And they couldn't _all_ be based out of Arcturus…could they? Shepard's eyes narrowed as she scanned the partygoers again. It certainly wasn't possible for all these specialists (O'Conner would have called it a geek, nerd, and muscle-head convention) to have postings here on Arcturus.

Which meant someone shelled out to have them here.

And why? For a pointless party?

Shepard did not think so. She was flummoxed if she could figure out what the secondary motive actually was. There were no reporters, so it was not to show off the pride of the Alliance. In any case, N-operatives tended to prefer keeping their mugs off the news as much as possible. Hackett was a shrewd man; he would not arbitrarily throw a party like this without a real reason.

The party seemed pretty well pointless to Shepard, unless they were looking for a reason to cut Rogers loose, put her out to pasture (or send her straight back to Earth). As much as the idea appealed to Shepard, she would never endorse such a thing. Rogers was an unstable element, and a biotic. Best the Alliance knew in which pocket it kept her.

Give Rogers a band of mercenaries the Alliance would have trouble bringing her—and whatever crime syndicate she set up—down.

An operation like that might just involve tactical nukes.

Which was when it hit Shepard why she felt so nervous. This party felt like…

…_a trap_.

A giant, unseen trap beneath unsuspecting feet. She still could not think of a 'why' to this theory, any more than she had found a 'why' for the last, but she had that feeling of a four-eyed ugly sighting in on the back of her neck. she knew enough to respect bad feelings like that, and to plan accordingly.

Fifteen minutes before she could excuse herself without raising questions. If worst came to worst—or things looked like they were going to drag on, for whatever reason—she was going to feign a headache and ditch the party.

She wished Robbins was here, for conversation if nothing else, though the Captain's absence felt ominous too. Robbins was good at what she did, excelled at her general orders to help keep the edges of the Traverse clear of trouble, to intervene where she found trouble, and put down Terminus Systems-type trouble with caution and relative prejudice.

But she wasn't here. Shepard never asked Robbins about the Captain's qualifications. The idea that Robbins had not specialized in _something _had never occurred to Shepard.

It was a night for pitfalls. Disillusionment, traps, and cake with that nasty non-dairy whipped topping. The buttercream-frosted cake had been the first to go.

"There's something rotten in the state of Denmark," Sheffler murmured, his eyes fixed on Hackett, who was mixing and mingling with all the savvy of a politician, though without half the flaws plaguing politicos. He seemed to be exerting a great deal of charisma…or maybe that was normal.

"Never been to Denmark, but there is something rotten here on Arcturus, that's for sure," Shepard muttered, feeling her metaphorical hackles rise in worry.

Sheffler turning his head, to give Shepard a look of mild puzzlement, before reminding himself that it _was_ a very old quote. "There certainly is."

Shepard was not surprised to notice from her vantage point, that Anderson and Hackett gave the distinct impression of working the crowd. She wiped off her frown, letting her expression settle into what most people would call neutral. The scarring on her face allowed her 'neutral' expression to look mischievously pleasant. A misleading impression she was happy to let others labor under—for today, at least.

"Commander, Commander," Hackett finally reached the far wall.

"Sir."

Shepard's eyes drifted back and forth between Anderson and Hackett. She had the distinct feeling they were summing her up; weighing her critically against some unknown criteria for unknown purposes. The mental announcement of this fact made her back prickle into gooseflesh.

The brunt of conversation—and expressing polite thanks for 'the invitation to this wonderful party'—fell on Shepard. She notices a slight quirk to smiles as she mentioned the party, making her wonder if her apparent enjoyment of the function was wasted. Hackett was shrewd enough to make her think he could see through her, as if she were some green rookie, just touching stardust for the first time. Anderson, however, looked thoughtful.

The interviews—that was the word Shepard stubbornly clung to—mercifully took only a few minutes, but left her feeling as if she'd just been quizzed and graded.

In that moment, she knew more clearly than at any other point that evening: _it was a trap_.


	98. Heaven

The room was nearly unending white—even the windows at the back did not show once you were in the room. The only marks were blue streaks on the walls, floor and several up on the ceiling, and the markings of the court itself on the floor, in stark black.

Another chance encounter with the most disagreeable Lt. Rogers had Shepard ready to spit poison. So in the interests of maintaining her reputation for not snapping at people out of hand when she got irritated, she dragged herself to the racquetball court. Some weeks she was not sure what she would _do _if Arcturus Station did not have one. Thankfully MWR had a bead on the necessities for soldiers feeling cagey. As big as the station was, as any station was, eventually people got antsy. It was, so she understood, purely psychological. Humans were meant to live _on a planet_ not a space station.

_Zing_. The first serve rocketed off the front wall, and pinged off the back before it lost enough speed for her to safely hit.

Stupid Rogers and her snide comments, the oh-so-superior attitude.

_Whack_. Shepard would like to whack _her_. Over the head with a racquet. Or a crowbar.

_Snap_. The ball scooted against the wall, but 'died' abruptly. Shepard retrieved it, stepped back, then tossed it.

_Zip. _The ball bounced back at her, sent back to the front wall with an unusually marvelous backhanded swing. Shepard hated the backhand, her least dependable maneuver.

The general air of wrongness for that party still lingered, like foot funk after a long day during basic. Too much politicking, too many secrets. Shepard hated secrets—at least, she hated them when they were paraded around in front of her. Stupid secrets, like cake-worthy occasions or whatnot did not bother her.

_Slam. _But the brass skulking around, putting people likely to squabble in the same place irritated her.

_Whack. Zip. Pting! _The last was an odd sound, to her mind absolutely native to racquetball. Sweat began to bead up on her brow, as she glared at the front wall, as though it were an enemy she would like to strike, but for whatever reason could not or did not.

Blame it on Alliance training when it happened in the field: there were many people she would have liked to shoot in the past (some mortally, some not). But the Alliance demanded certain things from her, and she was willing to accept to those demands. The Alliance was what she knew. She would toe their line to the best of her ability…even if she did not always like it, or agree with it.

She tossed the ball into the air, serving overhand. For a few minutes the volley kept up, until finally sweat fogging her goggles caused her to miss. It also caused her to trip, having overreached herself to smack the ball—ending up several inches short.

It was like diving for cover, only in a racquetball skort and sleeveless top, instead of body armor. Still, she felt the impact more in her civvies.

Shepard got up, tapping the toes of her shoes one at a time, settling her feet in them. It did not help, it was simply habit. The sweat dripping down her face and the heat radiating from her flushed skin seemed the perfect vent for every irritable, ill feeling she had—all of it Rogers' fault.

For a moment she could _see_ Roger's smirking face, that irritating cock of the head, the shrug of the shoulders as she spoke. Her lips curling into a snarl Shepard sent the ball slamming into the imagined face. The comical snapshot image of a caricature Rogers with her face smashed in, waterfalls of tears spilling from her eyes filled Shepard's mind's eye for a moment.

A blink dispelled the image as the ball bounced back at her like a bullet, but a vicious swipe sent it _back_, within an inch of the first impact. Anger gave way to determined precision—something she could and did take pride in. Of course, precision volleys did not endure as long as annoyance-fueled ones, but at least she could consciously _feel_ when she performed a movement correctly.

And all the while the ill mood seemed to vent from her skin between heat and sweat. Racquetball courts were always stuffy, owing to the impossibility of placing a fan so it did not interfere with the game.

_Snap_. Her wrist flicked, smooth and fluid, the ball striking the wall almost elegantly, though lacking some of the fervor and vim of previous salvos. Her breathing deepened, as if she were approaching some sort of zen-like peace, peace centered around a search for perfection.

Abruptly a timer sounded. Shepard glanced at her watch, the source of the sound. Had it been forty-five minutes already? With a deep breath she exhaled the last of her irritation. She let go of the things making the wheels in her mind spin fruitlessly.

It was with a sense of gratitude for things like racquetball courts on a space station that she tucked her racquet beneath her arm. She wished vaguely for O'Conner's presence so they could share a game.

The memory neither hurt, nor wrinkled the white sheet of calm over her mind. It was an idle, almost pleasant fancy, just like the one which followed it. Heaven, Shepard decided, smiling at the white room, would be like a racquetball court. Or at least have one. A white place, where everything was calm, pleasant, and relaxed. And if it was, or had one, there would be someone in the court with whom to share a friendly game.

Shepard stepped out of the room, finding the handhold in the back wall to open the door. "Court's free," she announced, pulling her goggles of as a tall, dark-haired marine passed her on his way in. Neither paid any attention to the other, one having achieved peace of mind, the other still looking for it.


	99. Danger Ahead

Squeezing two people into Captain Robbins' office aboard the _SSV El Alamein_ was sometimes tricky, but she and Commander Shepard managed. Shoved in between the wall and Robbin's desk, Shepard sat back in her seat, exhaling deeply as she looked at the orders in her hand. "Holy _crap_." And not even that so eloquent statement summed up the situation.

"'Holy crap' indeed," Robbins snorted, wrinkles formed between her brows.

Shepard continued to stare at the orders, occasionally scanning up or down, her brilliant blue-green eyes flicking back and forth as she read and reread passages. "Just the like that?" Shepard's stomach churned. This had bad news written all over it. All freaking over it…

"Why are you upset? You've been ready for this for years." Robbins pointed out. "_I_ should be upset. I'll get some snot-nosed kid with no space-sense…"

Robbins eyed her own copy of Shepard's orders with great distaste. This whole operation smelled of subtle maneuvering to filch one of the best officers in the fleet from doing the things she was good at, or so Robbins felt. Perhaps it was simply nature taking its course, these orders directing Shepard to a post as executive officer for Capt. David Anderson.

It did not explain why Adm. Hackett was yanking Shepard from the _El Alamein _so fast it could make a marine's head swim.

Robbins would argue Shepard did not have the patience to stay aboard when away teams went out, an argument Shepard would emphatically back. They both knew it was not exactly true. "We'll rendezvous at Arcturus station within the week. Then you'll take up your new posting."

Shepard sighed, shaking her head. She never put her name in as having any interest in the position of executive officer. She had no doubt she could do the job, she simply didn't _want_ it; she belonged here. However, the orders were cut, the terms very specific, and she could not very well tell anyone she did not want to change ships.

She respected Hackett and Anderson both; arguing with either of them was out of the question, even if the chain of command had permitted it.

A lieutenant commander did _not_ tell a captain what to do; nor did she tell Fifth Fleet Admiral Hackett what decisions he could and could not make. The suddenness of this decision, the lack of proper prior notice worried Shepard. What worried her more were the incredibly ambiguous terms of her orders, once she got past the strict 'you, marine, go here now'. Yes, they called it the shakedown run for a warship—_Normandy—_but there were no further details, none of the things she usually expected to see when orders were cut and delivered.

They did not even say what kind of ship _Normandy _was. She could surmise, but orders usually did not give reasons for surmise.

"You know anything about the crew?" The scar by Shepard's mouth pulled into sharp relief as she frowned.

_Well, _there's_ your killer marine face_, Robins noted dryly. "I put an ear to the ground—you didn't hear this from me," Robbins wagged a warning finger at Shepard. "They're supposed to be real hotshots. Or at least, the core members are."

Shepard breathed deep. And there was no destination for this shakedown run, the technical jargon equating to something in the vein of 'take her around the block a couple of times, while you wait for us to get back to you'. "I've got a bad feeling about this. You know…four-eyed uglies…"

"...back of your neck, I know." Robbins tossed the orders on her desk. "I've got it too. Keep your head down, Shepard." Robbins hadn't told Shepard to keep her head out of the line of fire for years, so it came as a surprise to Shepard she would start again now.

Of course, looking at the orders, maybe it was not so surprising. You didn't survive a black hole by hoping you wouldn't cut things too close: you stayed alive by staying the hell clear of one. This might not be a black hole, but the limited details made it sound like a black op. Or worse, it was some super-secret secret squirrel thing.

_Don't think that, you'll just jinx yourself_, Shepard ordered herself_._ _The crew's not necessarily comprised of hotshots, either. People use that word pretty liberally. They'll be skilled if they're with Anderson, though. Prototype ship, maybe? Anderson's one of the best. It's not as simple as smacking a ship with a champagne bottle. _

…No. Shepard could not bring herself to believe this oh-so-logical so rose-colored view. If it was that simple, really that simple, there would be certain jargon about a test flight—jargon that did not show up on her orders. Years with the Alliance, as an officer, an N-program graduate, and something of a military role model left Shepard able to read between the lines.

And what she was reading was someone did not want to tell her what was going on, but they did not want to lie to her either. Which hinted someone wanted her cooperating of her own free will. That sort of thing never ever boded well; it meant she would not perform half so well the duties she wound up with, if she felt disgruntled, misled, or as though she had absolutely no choice.

She probably would not have much of a choice, but it was important to make it sound as though she did—goodness knew she had employed that tactic often enough. It came with the officer's tags.

"If we hold course and heading, you'll have two days, maybe three before you have to report for duty. You can take a little vacation, or something." Robbins grunted. It sounded to her as though Shepard would end up in the shit faster than you could say 'go'.

"Ah," Shepard made herself smile. "What would _I_ do on a vacation? You know work is my life."

"Don't get cocky. I smell danger ahead."


	100. Solitude

Commander Shepard did not mind solitude. It long ago lost any sort of threat or menace. She liked solitude, just as she liked being surrounded by people—though perhaps not crowds. It was not something she ever expected to change.

She knew very well why she tended towards this view, and every so often reminded herself there was nothing wrong with being a social wallflower. Loss. Fear of further loss. After losing her family, her best friend and her cat, Shepard was not sure how much more she could take. A nervous or mental breakdown would cause her much more trouble than she wanted to deal with. To say nothing of putting her plans to the torch.

Arcturus Station, without the benefit of her fellow crewmen somewhere aboard, left her feeling vaguely wrong-footed, as though she'd forgotten part of her uniform. Not that she knew what this felt like. Still, it gave her a pang of the heart to watch the _SSV_ _El Alamein_ pull out of space dock.

Without her. Well, they had Captain Robbins, and Maguire. It was not as if things would fall apart without her, however much she might miss them.

Fortunately, Arcturus was home when she was not on the _El Alamein_, so it was not as though she was being dumped somewhere wholly unfamiliar. Hefting her bag onto her shoulder, grabbing her weapon case in her free hand, she turned after the _El Alamein_ vanished from view. The load wobbled, but mostly left her with a sense of balance. At least she did not knock into anything or anyone as she traversed the hallways and elevators towards her apartment in one of the housing blocks.

All alone, she moved down the wide hall. Once out of sight of the large reinforced windows she could almost imagine she was planetside somewhere. Almost.

With a shake of the head, she dismissed the notion. Who cared? Spaceside, planetside—home was home, and this was…home away from home. Somehow the promise of a post as executive officer was not enough to make up for the loss of the stability provided by the _El Alamein_ and her crew. She did not look forward to the process of acclimating to a new group of people.

The apartment lay dark and neglected. It _looked_ neglected, as Shepard dropped her effects and gear just inside the doorway. "Well, here I am," she announced to the empty apartment as the door hissed closed behind her, locking with a click. She freed the second pistol case from her equipment bag, and put it back under her bed, where it resided when she was in the apartment. Hidden from view.

From its place on her bed, haphazardly tossed so she could find it without having to search upon her inevitable return, she picked up the remote from it, aiming it at the sound system balanced on a stubby bookcase filled with datapads containing books, and a paper copy of the SACMJ. From the speakers poured the quiet classical she preferred when trying to sleep.

It might be un-marinelike, but it was easier to sleep to strings, harps and woodwinds than to anything else she'd found.

Tossing her hat to rest on her pillow, Shepard flopped back onto the bed, flinging her arm over her eyes, letting her legs dangle over the edge. She needed to stop by the commissary—if she was going to be here a few days before her new posting took effect—for a stock of Astro-Fizz if nothing else.

Come to think of it, she sat up, hunching comfortably, her hands clasped as though in prayer, her eyes drawn to the racquet in the corner. She never took it with her on duty—space restrictions for personal effects made it impossible—but maybe it would be nice to go down to the gym and ping a ball off a wall for half an hour or so. She enjoyed racquetball, even if she was not very good at it.

The solitude of the apartment pressed against her, but with familiarity rather than emptiness. It was a benefit of living alone to have a bathroom all to herself, devoid of gang showers, and with a tub where she could soak if she wanted.

But she missed the secure feeling of a sleeper pod. She patted her bed as she got up. She'd only miss it for a little while, and a real bed was good in its own way. Shepard got up, but without resolve to do much. She _needed_ to go to the commissary—she always cleaned out her refrigerator before leaving the station. Not even Astro-Fizz waited for her.

Certainly nothing that could grow mold was ever there. She'd heard horror stories of things left behind for a tour, which grew mold and who knew what else, waiting to welcome back the unfortunate individual who so unwisely left 'mold-ables' in the fridge.

Grinning to herself, Shepard toyed with changing into her civilian clothes, then discarded the notion, fishing out her wallet from her bag and shoving it into a pocket. No, no racquetball today. As nice as it would be to do something intensely physical, she didn't want to change her clothes.

Lame, she agreed with her inner critic, but true.

On the up side, there was Relay Rob's. And _that_ would drive out thoughts of what happened to complacent marines. Relay Rob's and cold Astro-Fizz. The evening would not be a total loss. An evening in, alone, with her music and her musings for company.

Shepard grabbed her cover from where she'd flung it, and tugged it on. Stepping out of her apartment, she locked the door and started down the hallway, along the familiar path that would—eventually and several elevators later—lead her to the shopping block.

And a small pint of ice cream, she appended her mental shopping list. Enough she could enjoy, but not so much she had to worry about leftovers when she pulled out.

-END-

Thanks to all my readers, and especially to my reviewers! Also to the Mass Effect Wiki, the 100 Themes challenge at DA, and to Bioware. Mustn't forget to say 'thank you'.

I appreciate all the support and the feedback for this story. I am pleased to announce that Cause and Effect does in fact have a sequel: to all of you who asked, here it is. It was good to hear the requests, and I hope you'll forgive me for having been evasive when the topic came up. The first chapter of the new project should be released in a few days. Allow me to announce...

**Mass Effect: Newton's First Law**

Hope to see you there. **  
**


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